I go on reading things in Emerson’s journal he thought would never see print. And yet here they are, more than a century and a half later, and so here is Emerson.
Almost word for word, I remember many things said by my grandparents. And so here they are.
Friends, parents, relatives, animals, places, here they are, to be forgotten and remembered for however long. And here we are.
Glaciers. Dinosaurs. Oil. Coal. The fragmentary fossil record. Stories, wars, poems. Volcanoes. Bomb craters. Crumbled, caved-in trenches.
The rain washes her back. She smiles strawberries and ferns.
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Categories: A Few More Scratches
Tags: Bathing, Death, Earth, Emerson, Ferns, Friends, Journals, Life, Memory, My Father, My Grandfather, My Grandmother, My Mother, Rain, Reading, Strawberries, Tenderness, War