Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here. — Sue Monk Kidd

I didn't know what to think, but what I felt was magnetic and so big it ached like the moon had entered my chest and filled it up. The only thing I could compare it to was the feeling I got one time when I walked from the peach stand and saw the sun spreading across the late afternoon, setting the top of the orchard on fire while darkness collected underneath. Silence had hovered over my head, beauty multiplying in the air, the trees so transparent I felt like I could see through to something pure inside them. My chest ached then, too, this very same way.

It was the oldest sound there was. Souls flying away.

We walked along the river with the words streaming behind us like ribbons in the night.