Some days I think that we have forgotten our ancient pact, the blood owed to the land that has shaped us bones and breath. We stretched and strained against the notion of death and created life as a line rather than a circle. Something that starts and ends, something that can be pulled taut or artificially extended with enough glue gun technologies. Somewhere along the line we forgot that we will be claimed in time, as all things are, that life is only precious because there is death, and that if we defeat death, we only defeat our own meaning, our own purpose. We save with no thought of what price must be paid by the one saved, that as the earth claws to take them, they are held in bondage by pain, and the wrongness of mangled cells. We wipe our hands of death, though it has long sat behind us, waiting to be acknowledged. We forget the vows we made in that first breath taken, that we will give our last breath that new life may come from the dust of our memories and the dissolving of our bodies. We forgot. Sometimes I remember though, and sing through all the hours toward the moment of my closing.