Limits are merely shadows of the edge, but they define my life.  Death is always lurking.  Relatives that were parameters of my childhood now fade away to the other side of breathing and memories.  Then is not now.  Here is not there.

What do I do with that information?  Why visit old relatives but for the rehashing of memories and the flood of tears as I drive away?  Sure, tears are human sign of love, but what is the use.  The rain nourishes the earth better than the salty water from my eyes.

Wander the earth telling stories.  That’s the instructions I get. 

So here’s the story today.  In the dream, I go into a fabric shop.  My mom and aunt would frequent them, buying piles of lovely cloth that would turn into a dress, or stay in the closet until after their death.  They are both gone now.  But in the dream I happen upon them in the shop and abruptly confront them: “Hey, you’re dead!  What are you doing here?!”

And they put a finger to their lips and shush me: “Shhhh!  Don’t tell anyone we’re here!”  And I tell the story whenever I can of their companionship and quiet joy.

I claim that peace as I still wander the earth today.