My Facelift
A final word (I promise)
She leaned in close at the end of the night, the way women do when they want to say something of gravity. The party was loud. The dj still playing tunes. She cupped my face, not literally but almost, and whispered, “Your face looks amazing. Are you so happy?”
I smiled. I hugged her. I told her to text me and I’d tell her anything she wants to know.
And then I drove home through the canyon thinking: three years. Three years and it is still the first thing.
Not the ranch life I’m building from nothing. Not the alcohol-free living I am nine months deep inside. Not the memoir I am writing or the new audio series I launched or the grief I transmuted into something I can actually live inside. Not any of that.
The face.
