There being something jarring about hearing the voice of a loved one you cannot see played back over a tape recorder from so very far back in your past: Very funny, Mr. Smarty-Pants. Turn that off. The painful ignorance of a recording of the past and the newness of love.
There being something like a fever to this constant urge to create, wandering about the house, picking up an instrument or a book, reading a few pages and then dropping it.
This emptyness, as if one could make oneself hollow enough to catch their muse.
There being something simple in the making of bread, this most holy of tasks, my idle hands, my busy mind. This most patient of miracles: my continued life, the swinging question in the void and our small existence beneath the stars.
