May every piece of writing I make for you be like a eulogy. May it keep me up at night after a long day of house and animals chores and may it visit me in my dreams. May I wake before daybreak eager to revise, add a secret passage, save for later the bits and bobs like the ends of onions and celery, herbs, carrots and bones I store in the freezer for a future stock. Nothing goes to waste.
We have our candle-lit coffee together this morning. She had the most discerning and clear–the bluest of blue eyes. Memories, such as they shape and shift, are mine. Scents, such as they pain, are mine too. Like time, nothing should go to waste when writing a eulogy whether it makes it into the spoken word or not. Let me tell you about her favorite bread: It was a dense loaf of sour seeded rye and she smelled like 4711, ironing and bourbon.
May my daily writing bring me to breathe deep in benediction, prayer, release. May it walk me with purpose, never a wavering, while I manifest a kind of music I’ve yet to hear in languages I’ve yet to interpret, with notes that make me swoon.
When I step away from my pen and paper or the keyboard to re-enter some shared consensus of our reality, I ask; “Am I even wearing pants?” And answer my own question by reaching down to touch my legs. Perhaps I should look in the mirror at least once today. Or, not.
Barefoot, I walk through the wet, frozen grass and fallen leaves, like she did. Slowly like a hermit. Feet so cold they feel like they’re on fire. What a sensation! What are more words for this I wonder? How many ways can I describe salt? My body speaks and amazingly I’m still here to listen and pay attention like worship.
Tell me, what is this new feeling of freedom because it is truly, terribly, terrifyingly unfamiliar and strange that I want it even more. Shedding another yesterday, I reach Good Morning to Leo’s stars as the sky slips on its royal robes. Carefully I’m holding their head—their unruly mane, sharp teeth and wild roar for another—this blessed day—the sacred, the profane, and the lamb.
Signing off for now my mom says, ‘So far so good. And don’t forget to check for ticks.’
Oh Alice, how did I not know this. I’m so grateful I found you 🙏
Gorgeous. Thanks Alice.