To her, the idea that we reincarnated was an obvious extension of the cycle of life. All life. Everything spun on a constantly moving wheel of birth, growth, and decay, the ocean around us and the Milky Way above, and all the galaxies beyond ours, numberless as the ferns unfurling along the side of the road. God wasn’t up there, in some celestial kingdom, but here in the world, in dirt clods and dew, in the patience of the spider that lived behind the sugar jar, in the exquisite strands of her web. Death wasn’t the end any more than a single shuddering wave on Portuguese Beach could stop
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Life Death
