Sunday, July 28, 2013

Some of the words are theirs

I need to know how to break up with my mother in as painless a means possible. 

I can forgive. But only fools who want to be repeatedly hurt forget, and I have already forgotten far too often. The forest offers peace. We join hands in mid-afternoon light and wander together for hours, drinking in the rainstorm, feeling the water slide from the slippery skin across our bones, remembering the immortal words of Norman Maclean:

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. 

I am haunted by waters.”  



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