It's August and it rains like the world has given up.
Seattle. I worry about my sons, both no-longer-teens.
Who, what, when will they be? How?
We go on and on.
I try to remember to be compassionate.
To approach the universe from a loving perspective,
but sometimes that's just damn hard.
But the rewards, the rewards.
At night with the window open and in this wind
I can hear P.'s wind chimes, intoning the moment.
There is comfort in that. Presence.
Again, I give thanks.
You or I could end at any moment: a fiery crash,
or something far less dramatic. And who would sift through
all we leave behind? Who would care? Most everything is doomed
for the dump, the transfer station, the paper recycler.
Doomed for Goodwill. What objects that I have saved, coveted,
will go in a heartbeat for 99cents? Which will linger in the bottom
of a forgotton bin: postcard, earring, plate?