I know that I wait in vain for an external sign to motivate an internal transformation. Nonetheless, the desire to locate the alchemical stone haunts me deeply, and perversely. The trick is, to walk on as if nothing has happened. Then, you do it all again tomorrow, as if it was the first time. You search, because not many things find you on their own.
I exist in the pit of my stomach. It is all felt in waves. I feel aunt Arminda’s death. Finally, she rests. Already I am forgetting the sound of her voice, but not the way she cared for me. That cannot be removed from my memory. Not the company picnics. Not the Santa Rosa Catholic Church’s annual fair. Not Sunday barbeques. Not swimming away hot Summer days.
Life changes when you most require that it remain the same.
And what of my dearest Muninn. He is only ingesting 450 calories a day. He is a purple skeleton, a slow suicide.
I hate them all. Leaving me so quietly, as if I would not notice in time.