What Was Left Us

We have to begin someplace don’t we? Despite the fuzzy marsh-like edges of our lives we pick these numbers, the only ones we think we’re certain of, and use them to remember a life. They are embraced by born and died. You look at these rocks in endless rows and these are the consistent bits of information – little to nothing is said about all the bits in between.

I really don’t think it matters. You cannot kiss a memory.

The pot needs stirring. The heavy things that sunk to the bottom and lay closest to the flames, softening in the simmer - and the lighter things that float to the top, when we aren’t paying attention evaporate and disappear – they all need mixing up.

I began on the edges of a Midwestern City - Minneapolis. In a black-painted house with short brutal summers and difficult growing seasons. Remarkable efforts were made to grow roses, a vining clematis and delicate blossoming things. Anything to add cheer to the blackness. What winter couldn’t kill, despite heroic efforts – that was what was left us.