“And death? I believe that the purpose of death is the release of love.” From Laurie Anderson after the loss of her husband, Lou Reed, this past November. Such an insight, mysterious light, what I see as the void to keep me pondering mortality with heart. That, as another conception within my life which develops while continuity dissolves from choices made of what will not be part of my future.  Evening walks this time of year I breathe in nascent pastels of hyacinth, magnolia’s perfumed coat of animism, parturient petals that form global spheres of cherry blossoms. Also the exhale. Dual bond of carbon dioxide. Respiration, it only knows of regenerative presence. What I spill myself back into.  I recall a family floating along on bikes about a playground and behind the son-daughter-mother-father nucleus,  a new mural which will last for a few decades and then naturally replaced with the fresh genetic paint of another. Backstory for more sunny day rides; narrative reminder during pale winters. Memories do remain. For both me and them. Imprints are made on beds. Warmth emanates into hats and socks. And houses have such things as closets, drawers, locking doors, policies of insurance and window views. I too live in such a home. It sits beneath blue sky, orbiting moon, centering sun, millions of crystal-sparkling stars of fire. 

All together evenings
Bearing witness to a fade
Of one day just as it came
At play with only what I know,
All life equal to my own 

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