Small Writing 1

Looking back over my life I realize that what I remember most is that which seems to say that all these things are one. The autumn sun on my face and my hand running through my dog’s fur. His soft tongue on my hand. I remember holding him for the first time and I remember laying him into the ground. Different, but not separate. Before and after only on the outside.

There are numberless moments beyond time. Winter swells burnished to platinum by the morning sun and the rough greyness of spruce bark under my hands. The faces of my family shifting before me, or the smell of rotten leaves, tread by beloved paws. The aching heat of the sun in my bones, speaking one of my true names to me. How can it be said that these are what was, but also what will be.


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