I dream about you often enough now that my heart lives in a perpetual state of confusion, convinced this surreal oroboros of childhood homes and reinvented memories is somehow the correct reality until the moment I wake and the narrative fragments. Yet even fifteen years later I still haven’t the nerve to scold my heart too sternly for its naivety; what if by breaking it just that much more it loses the ability to dream of you at all?
Perhaps I have always walked death’s road. After all, my corpse so easily reaches out ‘cross space and time to touch its siblings: to lay in the snow on a stark Russian mountainside (it was not your fault, Igor, you could not have known); to curl up among the masses huddled beneath Pompeii’s tephra burial shroud; to drown in Sendai’s monstrous waves or freeze in the north Atlantic on a clear April night. These deaths, these beloved dead, are clear as my own memories. Is this witchcraft? Is this wyrd? (Is this anything?)
To those ancestors with whom I share blood, be welcome here To those ancestors with whom I share identity, be welcome here To those society cast out unfairly, be welcome here Spirits who share this land with me, be welcome here
May this offering give you strength May this sacred space bring you peace May you find here what you most need And may I be of help in your journey
You are not forgotten; I will remember you You are not unloved; I will mourn you You are not unclaimed; I will honor you