Happier Times
Happier Times I cannot possibly recall how many times I have done my little Ritual. I don’t know if I discovered it, or if it was taught to me, or whether it is simply something I have always held within me from whenever it was that I was born. My past becomes more and more confused the further back I go, a patchwork of dreams and nightmares, shifting uncertainly, and always coming apart at the edges; the mismatched threads of a tapestry constantly unravelling even as I strive to patch and expand it with fresh experience. Only my special Ritual remains constant, a golden seam that anchors whatever it is that is really me into my body. There are few other certain memories before a couple of years ago, when I took up my current occupation. In some ways, hospice work has been good for me. There is something to the routine, the regularity, the consistency of it. I am eating better and more regularly, I sleep well, I look fine, as I’ve always looked. But there is also, quite naturall