Through the back sliding door, the scents of evening. Proust-like, they unlock a torrent of thoughts….

Remember this, my house tells me. Remember, when I am inclined to mourn the turns of my life.

Remember these first turnings of red in the pin oak I planted as a slim youngster-tree. Remember the long light—golden in the pasture out front, chartreuse reflected in the river behind.

Remember the breeze from an unexpected direction, and the dance of leave that answers it. Remember the smell of the air, all its plants, all its grasses. Remember the smell of a river, different, earthier, when I can see the gravel at the bottom than when it runs high.

Remember the creatures that parade past the door…the lizard babies…the crashed birds that revive in loving hands…the possum that stood nose-to-nose watching sweet Clancy through the glass.

Remember all the things I can’t see. The words I haven’t envisioned. The imaginary friends I have yet to create and the flesh-and-blood friends who visit my life sometimes and my heart always. Remember the dinner, as ugly as homemade sin, with a taste touched by angels.

Remember what is like to see, to feel, as a writer does; the reason for the “is” of me.

Remember it. Whenever remembering is needed; whenever I am in the depths, whenever I feel the need to call myself to joy.

My life on the river. Remember what I have. With all the gratitude that is in me.

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