Fear has no favorite friend. Knocking on doors like a salesman, it finds mine open. Stepping into a tidy home, knocking over vases of contentment, it spills the warm cup of tea just made and then sits at the table announcing its stay. Opening its suitcase, stinking rags of hopelessness are unpacked. Gifted lies shaped like holy relics to keep me safe, a sermon on the apocalypse. Soft and loud, whispering then shouting, it spins tales of lack collected from alleyways, each one a small crime. I steep a new cup of tea, placing hope in a fragile teacup filled with bitter herbs and childhood wishes. It breaks as I trip over the dog. I knew he was there. Opening a window that has not become stuck with age or habit, I hear a radio play Here Comes the Sun. Just for a moment bright rays enter, spreading dancing rainbows, each one a small truth. Fear pauses its too loud story to look at the spinning colors, like tiny miracles. Together we all dance, graceful ballerinas on pointe. Just for a moment.