artwork by Peter Himmelman
He wakes to a sliver of immaculate moon, radiating like a shard of sea-glass in the sun. He washes his face and stares at the mirror into his own eyes. He feels the floor with the soles of his feet and represses a laugh. This is life, this is breath, and pulse, and awe, he thinks. Not far away, an owl calls out. He thinks of his sister and wonders if the dead can hear. God is the same God on your side of the veil, is He not? And the world is being born at every moment, is it not?” And aren’t its birth pangs what we read about in the morning news, And don’t the seabirds fly in wonder, as they observe each new beginning? You can hear us, can't you? Hear us walk the crust of the Earth, in search of something to relieve the pain? To put us back to sleep, to make us dream again? As if our existence in waking is not itself a dream.
You take me right there with you.
The dead do hear. I've been listening all of my life.
So good, Peter. Listened to this on a bike ride along the Columbia River just now and pitied the unlucky not riding and listening along.