Pine cones scattered on crusty snow, the hemlocks working against time, like the rest of us loosening seed. A kind of silence is on me now, a kind of suffering. You were always the last one to go, weren't you.
"We survived Kenya, we can survive this." My mother and I cry, talking about how Dad was trying to die. Certain trails leave the forest in unexpected places, you can't complain, just get ready for what's next.
The form of the error is always more interesting to look at than the mistaken belief giving rise to the form, which itself is a way of avoiding the hard thing. We get into it and it turns out okay for once. How bodies flare in moonlight, how you cannot bear to disturb them then, even with your tongue.
What structure? Gassho rei all over again. You can't say until after was it worth it.
We make stew, spoon it into bowls with cold rice, eat by the Coleman while the wind howls. Sweaters stacked on the bureau. It's over now - now what?
Snow flurries, this midafternoon going on forever. Sometimes we just do the best we can and then walk away. You have to be faithful, even unto a cross.
Ghosts in the road, strange helpers in our dreams. It's a heavy lift, this lifeline offered by Christ.
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