The dog hesitated - and so I hesitated - and then I went on and so did the dog. In the distance - even now - one hears beavers at work on the trees that are left. And trains - en route to Albany, the Erie canal - passing through Chester, circling a hill. I would give anything for grace but sometimes accept this quiet.
When we return, it will be as rocks falling, a kind of settling, and it will have nothing to do with language. Alone, we can say: this is who we are. I will not begrudge any one their tea, their moment of prayer. She gives no contrary indication, which we take as a sign (which why wouldn't we?).
Nor will there be any folk dancers. Well, memories help to move us along, there's that to be said for them. Dreams of flight accompanied by a dream of falling slowly down a dead aunt's stairs. We wake up and there's Jesus, gazing into the fish tank the way the rest of us do, pleased with what it seems should be less pleasing.
The luxurious ego of kings vs. the fate of Thomas More. One falls to sleep picturing their own courageous martyrdom. "You just used a whole lot of words but I don't think you said anything." Well, we are often parroting our fathers, to their regret and ours.
Isn't this sentence lovely? You can wake up any time you choose. It's mutual and always was. It's Christ on the cross and dirty happy hippies all over again.
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