Your little sister gave me a card, some kind of gift card, I couldn’t see it. Looking at it was like a poke in the eye. She said you wanted to give me something, before you died, to thank me. I wasn’t going to say no. I thanked her. I gave her a hug. She’s much smaller than you! But like you, seems strong in her spirit.

All these magnetic rays and cosmic rays sweep through us. All this dust of dinosaurs (or something of the tiny plankton of their oceans, the calcium of shells that layered over millions of years in limestone), the oxygen, the molecules that immense beasts snorted on some long buried plain—in a droplet of my tears.

All these summers banked inside thousands of California hills. All these magpies, orioles, crows, red-crowned parrots banking, flitting by.

All these shimmers and glimmers of vast sheets of light, vast cycles of time, some of it must have a little light refracted from just that single Saturday.

All these tiny precious milliseconds we weren’t paying attention, didn’t know. All this dust on the lens, and the salt or whatever it is, a tear drop leaves on eyeglasses.

All these crowds of people (some of them so sweet, some with such bitter terribly bitter luck), all these mechanisms and mysteries, mastodons and mix-ups. All these sweeps of light and shadow falling submerged into the dark. All these blooming (in some way, returning to the light) in the morning, all the mornings blooming at kids, all these kids on their way to school, you know?

 

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