The best people are happy ones. our grandmother squeezing your cheeks, fussing over you, feeding you, loving you. You’re theirs and these years are yours. They get to experience you young, even while they’re not and they couldn’t be happier to have you.
Your grandpa never missing a chance to show off their little love. Slipping crumpled bills into your hands, bragging over you, praying for you, loving you. Happy to.
The best people are happy ones.
Your parents are proud of you. The ones who support you, raise you, and love you. Even unsure, you’re their best work. Sweet and kind, beautiful and solid. Good at love.
Friends, lovers, they hold space for you still. A person isn’t always good or bad, you’ve learnt. Young ones, you’re good at love. Yours is birthed from freedom and consideration. Love that offers particular space and protection for those without their defenses. You’re good at love.
The best people are happy ones.
Love broke with the generation.
The elders hushed and shushed and then whispered things they shouldn’t have, until the prettiest love read so wrong out of their lips.
Queer.
Soft love in and surrounding you, yet sounding so wrong.
The elders, the grandparents, the parents, they don’t speak to the young. Not anymore. Their hearts hurt but so do ours. Not everything can be supported, they’re certain. Not everyone loves right, they’re certain.
Everyone’s certain.
Everyone’s so certain.
There’s nothing you can do to thaw their hearts and life must be lived. While Earth figures herself out, you will love yourself anew.
We can’t make up for the loves lost and gone, but if we love hard enough, maybe after this life, we’’ll be reborn in a time where queer is enough.
