This morning walking my face filled with rain. It was cold as the third body arrived. I thought it was my brother - come to say he forgave me - but it wasn't. It was a wolf, crossing to my right, sleek and gray and strong. My fingers trailed across his pelt as he passed.
We leave no tracks despite our efforts. You don't want what you think you want, you only like thinking you do. It's okay. Maps were made so that all distance would appear manageable. Nothing's as dreamy as an empty highway.
But only the internal traveler matters. I am tired of symbols and people who need them. And yet. And yet Saint Francis remains the guide, watching from over my shoulder. "Do it again, beloved, do it again."
When I was a child a ladder dropped from the moon and swayed in the light like a current. While I watched he climbed, and fell and died, and my father stopped speaking to me for two decades. You're welcome to Jesus and if I can help you find the way, I will. But I want something else and look for it every morning. Meanwhile, he lies in the grave I made him, dark and silent, without intent.