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I’ve lived long enough to know that every
sigh opens a story, the way a mouthful of
water inflates a dry sponge to the form it
had when found in the deep.
My grandmother, for example, lives in the
mezuzah she brought from Russia, though
I can hardly see her face. And I feel her
son, my father, in the awl and chisel I
have, all weathered from his hands.
And to say your mother was kind holds
so many stories. I imagine all those she
touched, pausing where they are, to
think of her as I write this.
Yet we must go on, but never without
them. Even the bones of dinosaurs out-
waited the ice age to fertilize the flowers
that reanimated the Earth.
This excerpt is from a book in progress, The Slow Arm of All That Matters.