You called me Artist. I was young, then, and didn’t understand. I played my piano for a woman one night and she called me Musician. We ate at Denny’s and ordered eggs sunny side down. Several good years swallowed and I’m in a house made of stars, and one of the best pole dancers in Florida, she’s in another room, her own room, sleeping. She woke from a coma that year. She’s healing. In the kitchen, we talk about making sushi out of Twinkies and gummy bears but I want her to know I am healing, too, and I want to see her again but I never do. My time in that house has come and gone fast, I realize. I feel full now. I can leave. I’ve made it to New York City alone. I’ve made it Home, to Joshua tree, alone. In a room that I associate with starvation, I call my uncle. He is dying. I mention snowflakes to my uncle and those are the last words I say to him. When I was eleven, a girl named Laura got hit by a car and died. She went to my school, but I didn’t know her. Questions come up sometimes, questions like: Where have you all gone, and This planet is not the end of the road, and then I realize these questions are more like roots, affirmations. You called me Artist and said this with such beautiful, pure honesty, and after that, everything hit at once. I am dancing underneath all of these lights now, and I am just beginning to understand how to move, how to make out with strangers, how to explain Sexuality is a continuum, over and over. I’d learn how to smoke and how to snort and how to swallow. I would learn how to clean up, clean it all up. Artist. I want to make music. I want to go back to the time when everything was beginning. I want to remember what it feels like to make music for a woman, playing for her on the piano in my living room.