It’s been closer to 3 decades than 2 of believing deep in all my numbers. 10’s, 7’s, 5’s and 2’s — always right, personal-feeling and indicative of truth, especially in combinations with 1 another or with 0’s. 3’s and 9’s, we also think good. 3’s, 9’s, 7’s, 5’s make me think of weird boys turned weird men who I see on the street and might love, make me think of connections and new dates and communicating plenty without words. These odd numbers feel like me — like love — creativity — always like red. 

I bet heaven holds the evens, though. I envision 4, 6, 8 living in all the colors and sound we don’t know here, paint strokes felt in ways that are steady yet magnificent. 2’s possibly stoked God, they probably weave tapestries. I love my evens for their achievement, organized magic (unsung heroes, really) while still preferring my odd friends: glints in the dirt, dust on my boot, that old grimy sweater I used to wear searching for love.