We are, more than any other animal, story tellers.  And when our little perishable bodies rest back in the dirt, some stories carry on, some rest with us, and some are eventually dug up and revised.

My flesh and bones might tell of how I seem to limp, or a bruise carried from childhood, or that I had babies, but they can’t tell the story of writing in the dark, dancing with my infant daughter, cheering at my son’s football games.  Nothing in my physical being will relate the laughter of my dad catching me at a bad joke, or the care my brother takes in making a paper-thin vegetable sandwich for me.

And even this simple stories I put down in the mornings–they go off into the ether of mysterious radio waves to be caught by you, brilliantly breaking the space-time barrier–but with no guarantee of causing even a ripple.

So you see, it’s about the telling from my heart out of this body.  Somehow the memories carried, the path trod, the faces I hold dear all come together in thoughts, tall tales, fantastic whirlwinds and dead end mumblings.

Today the city lights glow more than the dawn; the season shifts despite the warm morning.  The night lasts longer to whisper secrets of the dark.