On the day of the dead, among this cloud of witnesses, someone here whispers, help me find it again, that joy I once had in looking. Instead of an answer, this space, and the hum of a motor nearby.
We love the old trees of our myths for the spaces they hold inside themselves, but also for the way they know to keep it around them, this cushion of shade made soft by the absence of another tree.
In the eruption of any given birth, a core could easily splinter, and yet here we are, faces dappled by the light and noise of becoming, learning to make room for what would breathe.
2 thoughts on “Altar”
I share this essay with someone every day of the dead. I almost forgot. It’s fairly dated, but I still think it’s quite funny. https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2011/10/24/dear-mountain-room-parents
Jeff, Thank you, thank YOU. I really needed a laugh at the end of this long day, and this gives me a number of them! Much needed : )