I chose to drive his car fast in the rain so I'd be there when he woke.
I chose honesty because of all the lies I breathed and spoke.
I chose dogs and cats and mice and Latino men in hats.
I chose Pepper Trees and Eucalyptus in summer, a Magnolia for my winter blues.
I chose Dickinson over Whitman indoors near a fire.
I chose traveling without a clock.
I chose baths and bubbles.
I chose waterfalls and somersaults.
I chose orange and green.
I chose ice-cold cantaloupes, though the menu read ripe Honeydews.
I chose songs.
I chose forgiveness over blame and hope to remember this when asked to name names.
I chose my parent's reputation.
I chose Ella then Billie then Etta on Sunday Kind of Love.
I chose Cullum then Debussy then Mozart on lazy Saturday afternoons.
I chose No when asked to say Yes.
I chose equal inheritance.
I chose contact with aliens because borders don't belong to people in clothes.
I chose marriage equality after just six months but couldn't say "wife" for well over a year.
I chose peonies and counted petals listening to his pretty talk.
I chose to lay like a flying squirrel when the water filled my borrowed wet suit.
I chose mystery over comedy and comedy over tragedy.
I chose dark hair, though I'm curious about the silver ones.
I chose an older taller man who cut hair too short.
I chose to turn my back on the younger, curly-haired Kinsley who could play anything.
I chose to keep the antique earrings.
I chose 525 miles on a bike from San Francisco to LA.
I chose pedaling with just the one good leg.
I chose to rock with babies.
I chose to kiss her forehead and caress her elegant fingers, though I avoided her rosary.
I chose nothing when she offered me everything.
I chose 6 but now know it's code for 9.
I chose sound over sight.
I chose my 17th year to rewrite.
I chose pickles and pepperoncini.
I chose admitting I was wrong.
I chose accepting I was right.
I chose listening and learning over pleasing.
I chose love in the end and love at the beginning.
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