if this is what we are all born of, when did we become separated? And when did that separation begin to lead to fatality, borne of fear, borne of not wanting to be alone, borne of not wanting to be alone so badly we forget that we are never alone. Even within our own skin billions of microorganisms working to keep us breathing, keep us moving, keep us alive in these bodies. I shoulder the burden, or try to, take the mantle of what ill has been done since before my time. My ancestors borne on the backs others, refused to look down, or just refused to see. I fall into their footsteps, fitting the well trodden path and wonder: so they were of the old, so they were of the North Country, so they were of my heart before I was borne, so what. Love does not render perfection, nor cure all wrongs. But it elevates, creating space to grow the good, tend the well-intentions, begin to breathe into the rest. Stitch the wounds back together. Breathe. Pass your sister the needle and hold her while she witnesses her own pain. Stand strong in ceremony, together. Nurture each other.
When this is done, it will be time to brush away the dust,
made mostly of skin, mostly of stars, mostly of us.