Erika—name like soft light across the kitchen table, like the word for coffee when morning does its small, stubborn work. Fill me up, she says, and the room leans in: a command and a prayer wrapped in one.

If, by the end, there is anything left, fill me up with the courage to give it away. Let it pour out like surplus light, like a well that keeps surprising you with its depth. Erika—fill me up. I will be ready to spill over.

Fill me up with good trouble—the kind that wakes you on a weekday and insists you call an old friend, or board a bus with no plan but a map and a dare. Let audacity be the petrol in my veins; I’ll take it to the coast or to the corner store. Surprise me with a sky I haven’t seen before.