Gifts from the Unknown

We have what we are given until it is gone.

We have the loss. Only in the loss do we really have choices.

We can clutch at the past as we might try to grasp a particularly alluring raindrop.

We can refuse the knowledge. We can tell ourselves stories of betrayal, deceit, illusion – or we can write new stories.

You know – stories not about failed “love,” but about a dog found on a desert highway; trees cleared to make room for yet more houses; lobster mushrooms sprouting from the damp forest floor; two perfect turkey vulture feathers found under a Ponderosa on the day you pulled the life-support from a desiccated fantasy; a ruby ring . . .