Julia once woke me in the middle of a nap in college in which I'd been dreaming that love is a bowl. I told her it was silly, but she insisted on hearing. What I meant, in that foggy, vague dream logic, was that when you first start to love someone, they are like a plate; they don't know how to contain the love, and it spills over the sides and away. Gradually, though, the flow of love begins to deepen the shape of them, and they become bowl-shaped to contain your love.
A few months later Julia gave me an imperfect, hand-carved wooden bowl from Kenya. It was a bowl meant for honey. She told me women would put it in their windows, and if a certain kind of mockingbird came and tasted the honey, it said good things about the woman's fertility, I think.
I don't know about that, but I do know that it's difficult to describe how much love I have for this girl. If love is a bowl, I hope Julia has a cauldron over there in France.
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