Pentecost.

I went to my Dad’s this morning and tried to describe what last night—the closing night of Tarantino’s Yellow Speedo—was like. “We were all seated at long tables, outside in the warm night air, thirty or forty of us, sitting with our hips touching, drinking and laughing, friends and lovers all, saying goodbye one by one in little duets, saying beautiful things to each other, like I hugged Nicola and could hear her heartbeat and told her so, and Kyma’s leaving tomorrow and Kana’s catching a plane and Allen and Ishai and Cameron are all leaving too, and Hankla bought everyone tequila shots, and we toasted to life starting over again.”

Dad said, “It’s Pentecost.”

I thought he only meant it figuratively.

“No!” he said, “Today is really Pentecost.”

And so it is. Pentecost is the Christian feast commemorating the descent of the Holy Spirit on humankind, appearing as tongues of flame on their brows, which made them speak to each other in different languages, but each could understand the other as if they were speaking their own mother tongue.

So we scatter to the winds. What do we do with all this love?