It never ceases to amaze me that my life keeps changing, how I might think I have a handle on myself and my surroundings but the next day—no, the next minute—it shifts completely. Disorienting? Maybe, but so rich and delightful.

Memory makes cognizance of these shifts possible: I can remember mornings in middle school wandering around the neighborhood with vague thoughts of sunshine and evergreens and the guy I was into at the time. I know what I was probably wearing. (This mind is organized more by theme than chronology.)

I can remember walking to church wearing a skirt and a sweater and thinking about empty summer houses and blue and white china and vague friendship.

I can remember biking around at sunset stopping at tops of hills to think up titles for my never-to-be-written novel.

I'm grateful for all those airy days when I moved around thinking. That's where and how I live the bulk of my life.

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Different graveyards, different days.