They say the past is etched in stone, but it isn’t. It’s smoke trapped in a closed room, swirling… changing. Buffeted by the passing of years and wishful thinking. But even though our perception of it changes, one thing remains constant. The past can never be completely erased. It lingers. Like the scent of burning wood.
We don’t get to pick the things that fix us, Red. Make us whole. Make us feel purpose. My moment of clarity? It came from the strangest of places.