3.29.23

Loneliness is the entrance. Reaching inside, I finally got my hands on something whole. There is no answer to this kind of violence, only a response. Once as a child you and I both said: why me, why now, why like this? History is a reverb until it is put to song. I chose to sing and so did you. Living this long life, face turned towards the sun. At dinner last night, speaking to ____, I told them that I began to write the book because I needed somewhere to tell about the mountain and what it meant to me. 

Suddenly I remembered ____, and I strained to remember the sound of his voice. I tried to recall the sudden, arbitrary nature of infatuation. The intensity of getting on my knees that summer and praying to something I could not see or understand. How I turned towards him and asked for destruction. Walking away for the last time, I looked upwards and asked for the sky to bend and give us rain. My hands tracing the outline of longing, of apology, of the beginning of time as well as the end of it.