Is leaving our friend?
Is loss our perpetual neighbor who drops by too often?

What is this strange world we all inhabit, our only home, our mysterious mother?

Living in a glass box looking out at the huge thing called all of it,
moving through each day mesmerized by the merest of daily events, hoping for the best, refusing to see the sign saying ‘the road ends here.’

What can we make of this vivid,
inimitable, unpredictable universe we leapt into?
What is our job here?

Are we to make friends with every loss along with every awe filled moment of shattering beauty?

Why not say we each are walking a road home, to a God we chose or into a distant light of the unknown?