Thirty-one tombstones line the border of Cradle Rock, and time’s eyes have seen the passing of all.
We stand at the end, and we remember. It started with a rose.
Turn, and two tombstones wait, with Paris’s pony to stand guard.
Grim leaves one to carry on the line, but takes a mother, to leave a son alone, and Paris remembers all the days.
You can flirt with death–it’s a way of making peace. When your name is called, laughter’s echoes ring.
Three tombstones, and a little girl, whose own thoughts quiet in the silence at the end of the line.
Four tombstones, and a call to the sadness hotline. Time watches as love finds its way to solitary hearts. Sometimes, death will listen.
Time moves through us; we dance with new life.
The song repeats.
We can face it head on, as if alone…
But in the space between the beats of each heart, we find the pulse of others–joy like confetti; death changes the remote: now we meet, now we hug our child, now we listen to mysteries we cannot comprehend.
Time carries in each moment the joy that we have felt.
We remember the child, the cousin, the caterer, the moment of surprise: Is this life?
And with us, always, are the spirits of those who have come before, as much a part of us as our own pulse of memory and thought.
The confetti of joy, the dance of self–do I hear my name?
This moment holds all.
And still we run towards new. Two hands! Ten fingers. To hold, to draw, to cook, to write, to play an instrument. To count memories.
A sister’s smile. A fierce rage. The moment of love.
The line of tombstones grows, and still we dance.
Make the music yours, as time moves through you.
Keep your heart in that still place, between the beats, between the laughter, in the look before the tears.
In every moment, it is all there. This is how time moves through us.
The purple light cannot be reaped.
It’s the part that goes on, untouched by form.
The energy in the look of love. The moment of memory. The still sigh. A morning’s smile.
The line of tombstones grows. We dance. We remember.
Take this moment. Take it inside of you.
When next you look, this moment remains.
There in a look, in a dance, in the space between the pulsing of your heart. In the silence behind the laughter, that’s where it’s to be found.
Death isn’t fooled. Life carries in each moment all that’s come before, and all that waits ahead.
We stand at the head of the line, remembering all that has come after.
Where does music go when the song is no longer heard?
Something lasts, and that’s what I remember.
We walk in the spaces of the line, and we remember.
They live in our stories. They live in our hearts. There must be something of them that is not lost.
Still we dance.
Still we remember…
…what is lost and all that lasts.