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It’s like an old milk-fed memory that’s come unbound and coalesced into physical form. It should be accompanied by the playing of a flute or oboe, one of those hollow instruments whose wistful watercolor music comes from the lungs and is expressed through the mercy of breathing. It should be seen only in afternoon light coming through a four-pane window, dappled by the stubby-fingered leaves of an oak planted by your grandfather’s father. A cat should saunter by at soft-padded intervals, smooth as olive oil, and disappear in an unconsecrated moment like an unspoken prayer, like childhood beliefs and old milk-fed memories.
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