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  • Stone
    5 May 2005

    There is a stone somewhere, being designed and cut, that has a place for my name and the dates of my life. My name, on the back of my mother's marker, with the date of my birth under it and a space left for the date of my death. A place waiting for me, a warmthless home. I take a kind of comfort in that, there is a place where I will be noted near my mother. Someday someone will have to come back and add that second date. Someone will come back and look at that place and quote and those names. I only hope that I can keep that land so my death can be marked and someone will care that we lived and died when they see the stone in the garden.
    I want the words on my skin, the words on that stone. Not because I love the words but because they remind me of the stone. "Birdsong, wind, the water's face. Each flower, remembering the smell; I know you're close by."