Laughing with the Ghosts at the Cloisters

...So, time goes on and another book...

Wedged against rotting red stone and Spanish tiles, laughing with the ghosts... And it is almost 5:00 PM, the heat has been merciful and the birds sing their thanks... The Cloisters...

And I feel as if I could be anywhere... I have no country and no time and imagine the rich fabrics and folds of my skirts. And the rapidity with which I must deliver my message as I rustle through the narrow passageways of my home. Or, Several hundred years have passed... It is the eve of the French Revolution and this place is dead... a barn, put home and history so alive because it is a natural part of the landscape of my memory-- the human memory.

I want to be here, without motion for eternity. Without time or place, now, I feel like I am in eternity... I am kissed by these ghosts and almost believe that i have been right all along... that memory doesn't die and that I am them and they are me.

And that ache ache ache (!) returns with a bittersweet sigh of calm and (?) (content?) nearness. Adam and God so close on their clouds. No, we have not touched, but I see them. I know that they exist, and I wonder what it will take to scoot two inches closer-- if it is possible at all.

I feel a surge of time and see the truth. Even though I know that it will be erased from memory as quickly as it was revealed. I see your rosy lips! The smallness of your frame and pulled hair!

I see!