My mother wakes late at night, she waits before holding my head in her arms. One hand pushes my hair back, the other strokes my ear calmly, tuning a melody of dragonflies that were once so vivid, now phantoms spreading in the dark, becoming the forgotten wisdom of the ancients: Memory, we say. Memory, like a prophecy of heaven and earth, finds no place for rest when it is open. It is equally weighed in heaven as it is on earth, filling and fulfilling all distance in-between.
Jennifer Kaye Shepard As Time Ticks 20