Last night, my inksister and I talked for well over an hour. Our talks always start on how we are feeling/what we are doing/tiny&big updates and then we leave the path and wind through the woods and waters of talking writing and craft, conflict and love. There is always love like there is always weather. Surrounding and threading through. These talks are always so healing and helpful, and the way I miss her is a mountain crowding my heart. This time we discussed her memoir and my new role in a writing workshop as a TA-in-training. One thing I love about our talks is that we give one another room to speak. In the past I've been fairly awful at the allowance of space in conversation. The past few years I've changed how I view interactions--how they are moments worthy of quiet as much as they are noise, how listening is not waiting to speak, is never waiting to speak. To feel in the presence of my loved ones that I am fine never uttering a word again if it means listening to