How old is my valley?
Millions of years, I suppose.
How old is my iris?
Just a few weeks.
One grows from the other.
Time means nothing.
Life goes on,
With us or without us.
A Cuban torch song from the 1950s plays in the background,
A little too loudly. Perhaps the song is actually in the foreground.
It is a beautiful spring day, but I cannot bring myself to go outside.
My son has been dead for one month, and his ashes wait
In a little box on the table beside the hallway to his old room.
During the day, when I walk past, I touch this box very lightly.
My, how long the days have become. How slow.
I feel too old to give up, to let go of hope, even though the number of loved ones that I’ve lost just keeps growing. Look there, the moon is at its finest.