The clock on the wall is God. His hands, sweeping by, reminding us that time is running out. So get to it, boy. The window is my eye. Looking to possibility as a green horizon. And the path is the new vein, running down my arm. Saying, "Blood is compulsory".

These shoes. I have always known I walk around at the expense of my sole. Wearing thin. But my feet feel so much better there.

I breathe in. I am told it is holiday nuts. Cinnamon. And air that is just a little to clean. But I like it just the same.

We let ourselves move the puzzle pieces into place, one by one, knowing what the picture was going to be already. We squeezed the last bit of it out with our hands until the juice ran down our arms and we held the pulp out like offerings to strange gods. We fought and fought to meet at the center and then promptly forgot why we were there.

And I am taken back to my nephews. The smiles. The reminder that blades of grass split our toes and somewhere in that is childhood. And I roll the ball to him and say, "Kick it." and he doesn't. And I say, "Not yet? Okay. I'll roll it slower." And he doesn't. And I smile and say "We'll wait". And he smiles and says, "It's okay. You'll figure it out." And I will.

Our strange adventure will be pushed into one point. Carried away like jasper. And the images of the Apache Dinae, the ears, the cloud we rode through, the ocean, and each of the little things will yellow and crack until it is nostalgic and sweet. Honey. Wine. Thyme and thyme again. Rolling down and creating a glow in the bottom of my stomach. Stoking my fire. Using my ennui as kindling.

Listen. Listen to each click. Listen to it saying, "It.. is.. never... too.. late."

My hands are sticky with possibility. The strange gods have begun to lap at my fingers. And I can see the look on the face of my nephew when he finally kicks the ball.

The clock on my wall is God. His hands are still. My hands are covered in hope. And I have begun to remember something I'd forgotten.