The bones of the whale are bleached down by the harbor where the water is clear and you can see the grains of sand and the eelgrass and the white shells.

The people in the town are your friends and the sound of their cars moving on the road is comforting in the stillness of the coming night.

The rafters of your home have the sweet smell of your mother and father on them and the glow from the lamps in the house wash over the trees outside.

The trees rise into the sky like the brushes of the artist who paints memories in the branches and the roots all at once.

The geese call just before the night and the sound of their wings is crisp and they make wakes on the still pond.

The dog listens on the porch silent and grave while watching over you; it’s her job and she takes it seriously.

The tree branches are sharp against the sky and they creak in the cold that creeps up under your parka.

Inside there is a fire and she is reading in its warmth.

It is the beginning and the end, the here and now and the past all at once and now there is nothing but now.