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We are not born now—we are passed on from the first stars to the next, as they burn and die, their elements sweeping out into space, again and yet again, until here we are. We carry stardust. And each speck of this minute grain—invisible to the human eye, as old as our universe—within it carries us.
He pulls his shawl closer. “What do any of our stories mean? Every time you tell them, they are different, their meanings as multiple as the versions they exist in. Such a tricky thing, don’t you think? Hard to grasp. But is this bad? When meaning is direct, like an arrow through the heart, it can kill things.”
I’ve been thinking about journeys. Across rivers and seas, and swamps and mountains. The ones that take us where we never thought we’d reach, caves and underworld forests, to a river’s bend. And journeys that lead us to someone else’s journey’s end.
I wish it could have sustained Oiñ a little longer, held her stronger and upright. But maybe sometimes it calls us instead, knowing it is time.
Go in peace, Oiñ, go in peace. You go, I stay, and someday in the earth of our earth, we meet.
