The art of finding isn’t hard to master, either. We find so many things, past or present. Your way home. Yourself. In a pickle, a jam. Find something every day: steel bristle from the street cleaning truck, lucky penny on the ground. Then practice finding many, finding more: ten dollars in your winter coat, a stolen hour, lunch with this woman you love. The pollen from stargazers staining her shirt. In the wine, find stonefruit, ash. Share the dessert. Find a volunteer melon in a weed-choked bed, scrap of paper scrawled with what the doctor said. Those seeded crackers we ate with lobster salad that time. Your lost earring. Your friend from junior high, online. And finding you—a miracle. What are the odds? I find myself on my knees. Weeding, thanking god.