I want to tell stories that are not mine to tell. At my best friend's brother's funeral, I was an honored witness. That is all. A guest in the company of kings. There is much to my friend's tale. The losses are brutal. Epic. Know this, what she has endured is Shakespearean in scope. A lesser mortal would have folded. What is mine to tell? Wandering the woods after the luncheon, after the funeral, the honor guard, the motorcade down exquisite Autumn roads, I find myself wanting to explain myself to strangers. My black garb. My dress shoes. The weeping. I am not a morose, middle-aged goth woman. Fear not for your children.
I am beholden to everything that surrounds my being. This sublime Earth. Moments cannot be carried. Only accepted and lived. All at once, the starlings lifted from the grass, forming and reforming one spirit, together over the trees. And the lake reflected it all.