It’s 3:17 on a Sunday in the middle of winter. Quiet house, quiet neighborhood, lying on the couch with a book, listening to the rain falling and falling after weeks of being gone. Slight breeze, water dropping on the roof, dropping harder, and you hear the calls of geese. You hear them even when you don’t, hear them in the fan, in the heater, in the turn of your head just so, and so. What is it that you’re wanting?

Stand outside in the rain with a map in your hands, a map that has directions to what you most desire. Stay outside, in the rain, and watch the paper turn to pulp, and you will understand something of pain. Watch the paper dissolve and slip through your fingers, and then you will understand that nothing ever lasts. You are not big enough to stop the storm, not even big enough to protect what you’ve been given to hold. Your hands will be made empty, and you will know what it means to see your diamonds turn to coal.

It’s a book about glaciers, this book that you’re reading. It’s a book about Orpheus, this book that’s passing your time. It’s a book about all that you failed to see. It’s a book about losing. It’s a book about surrender. It’s a book about coming up under the weight of so much water, so often, so much, until your lungs turn inside out, and your ribs split into gills, and look, you no longer need to fight to get above the surface. You can stay down forever.

Sit on your couch, on your porch, on your papason chair, stay still, pull the blanket to your chin and tuck your hair behind your neck. Shut your eyes, and see how you can’t even remember what you had then, it’s been so long. Or don’t shut your eyes. Keep them open and watch the sky, watch for rain, watch for crows, count the geese as they pass you over, over and over. You’ll never figure out where they’re going.

It’s midnight on a Monday or noon on a Tuesday, dawn on a Saturday, dusk at week’s end. The sky, it paints from gray to blue to orange and back, back and back. The sun, it shows its face, then doesn’t, and then it does again. And why? You could tell them, time and sun, that they can rise and fall, ebb and flow forever, and still, no one will get it. It will never be enough. To be in this world is to always be desiring something more. Now tell me–do you miss it?