So you went through life without whistles. It was an uneventful, careful, simple advance from infancy to old age. The
ideal was to be heavenly in name. To crib fame from God and make it mortal. To be renowned (which is a funny
way to put it--re-nouned? Revised in your nounhood?) To offer your pulse to language or sound or a canvas--to
float as one live event swept away and meshing with so many other similar soft occurrences--you knew it in your
most animal muse, was what you were here for. What is here then is now there. You move through one created thing
to another. Does it give pleasure, does it out likenesses and discordances that measure the weather, person by person?
When you're gone, your breadcrumbs will stray behind you. Maybe it will look like a path, a way back, maybe not.
Some will stand in the middle of the forest holding perfectly baked loaves of bread. But those were not your loaves.
Those were not your loves. Maybe yours required that you tear them bit by bit, without reward or comment, as you
went, step by step, from where you began to where you ended up standing. By definition you weren't as much a
baker as the ones with official ovens. But does it matter, if summer is hot enough to raise dough all by itself? I'm
a failed baker, but a happy addict. I sew my crumbs just for the throw of it, for my own, and my loved ones' health.
