The Writer Elkhound and I take a walk. Thora reminds me to keep an eye out for movement and to pause by aromatic patches of spring. The forest is complex, nuanced by dust, new growth, squirrel middens and the rapid strokes of feathers as birds oar through the heavy air. I sense rain.
Today is, as all days are, an unwrapping of moments. I consider the drift of years, the detritus of time, the trinkets of memory.
As I sit down to work, Thora curls at my feet. When I pause, she jumps up to make a circuit of the room. As she examines the window, there is a realization that I even like the clutter that inhabits shelf and window sill: the chaotic jumble of old jewelry, photos, small toys, a hastily scrawled list. The fragments of recollection.
I savor the vibrant sprawl and the double meaning of impermanent things.
Worry beads for temporal beings.
“I think it is all a matter of love; the more you love a memory the stronger and stranger it becomes”
― Vladimir Nabokov