Saturday, Paul and I walked the north field letting Saba run without her leash. The sun came out as we talked about you and death. I was telling him that I’ve finally, humbly, given everything over to love. No want for any possession, no secret dream, no fantasy of power or desire—nothing now beyond being split and stripped as kindling for love. Anything to keep the fire going. I was telling him how I would have done anything for you, how I will do anything for those I love, anything. The sun turned brilliant. My emptiness returned, and I realized, after offering everything, that while there’s much we can give another, there’s really nothing we can do for each other. No pain can be carried for another. Each is a felled tree we must lift ourselves. No lack of esteem can be lanced and healed for another. Each is the puncture of a nail we must remove ourselves. No blanket of hesitation can be pulled back from another. Each is an accidental hood we must shake off ourselves. The sun turned brilliant, and it made me accept—give what we will—there is nothing but bearing witness with a soft hand. So we walked, feeling empty and alive, and my dog ran in the light, and we walked, feeling everything at once, wanting to offer it up, knowing it would not alter the course of a life, the events of a death, the course of anyone’s life but our own, which, no matter how individual, will pool in the mysterious vortex of everyone’s death, everyone’s life.

And as we walked, feeling like trees growing toward the sun, though these roots we call legs are never still enough to root, Saba began to poke at something to our left, poke and growl, approach and back off, circle and paw, dart and leave. She flipped it over. It was a sheep’s skull, teeth up, sockets in the grass. And instantly, Nur, as if God had tossed this figure from His alphabet of metaphor right in our path, I knew this is what I’ve been doing with your death. Just sniff, probe, poke, and growl. We watched the primal dance, learning from my dog. Until, with a simplicity hard won by humans, she trotted on, leaving the skull totally behind, sniffing for the next moment, following the light, the wind, the cascade of a fallen leaf.

But we are left with our consciousness. We poke the skull and circle back. Today, I can’t stop poking. Where are you, Nur?