(Just because it’s been on my mind as of lately).

When I was 13, my father was buried six feet under; left to give his flesh to the earth and all of its inhabitants.  When the crowd behind me had long concluded their vicious cries I knew my father was where remarkable winds blew, or rather no wind at all; warm and opulent, listening to the whistling rain fall from our eyes, the storm in our hearts wrangling within the bounds of itself, where his ship was no longer weighed with an anchor. Cemeteries are well kept, unaffected by obscurity, consistent, but roaring life with whispers. That is when I settled my decisions enclosed by unknown contours.