Do they think about you?
This is what it’s really about. Chiseled into iron skies or churning leaves from bronze to gold, is there any splinter in time they think about you? Just some ill-formed, shadowy sense of you dropping handfuls of dog food into the crook halfway up the trunk of the old tree out front. You think they would like that word, crook. They don’t need to remember you forever or have a name for you that they…
