Someday I will stop looking at the past, stop examining the things of memory,
the smell of campsites, of cigarettes, of sweat and toil, of being freshly washed,
the taste of arctic char, of pickled ginger, of dandelion wine, of a bloody lip,
the light in a field–or over ocean–with shimmering clouds scattered, secrets within,
the first time I heard your voice, and the last. The ringing beauty of my horn singing,
the touch of you: so many, beside me, warm, comforting. The comfort of being alone.
The feeling of well-being, of my growing strength, the certainty that my senses
have not exerted their potential yet; and neither have I. The past, and my
memory, are moving further and further away: one day at a time.