You know the feeling when you start thinking and just can't stop again

You fall into a tunnel that has no end because it had no start

You've always been here and there's no escape

It's just life and there's no choice but to keep living or die

No alternate option or restart button if you don't like the hand you drew

No option to stop thinking once you've started

You can train for years but your mind will never be empty, just shift in focus

I'm not scared to die but I'm scared that I'll never live again

This life will be the only one I ever have and what if I'm not doing enough with it

Then what if I just don't have as much potential as some other lives and I'm in a tunnel just thinking and thinking while other people are running free in vivid picture brains with infinite possibilities and my whole life is just one string of words until I remember their life is the only one they have too

I guess I'm mostly sad that this existence is the only one I'll ever get to know

I'll never get to grow up any other way than how I did

and I'll never look in the mirror and see any other face but mine

And the tunnel doesn't start and doesn't end

It's so full of everything I've experienced in my life but it never meets with any other tunnel

There will never be anything here seen by any eyes but mine and all the memories are colored by the same lens and all the wants are ones I determined for myself long ago and now they're so built in I can't just stop living the way I always have

I can stand still or walk or run but I can never leave

Even if I leave I won't be able to go anywhere else, see anyone else's existence, I'm just gone and that's it and my lonely tunnel will still be there, not that anyone would know because they can't see it, they're trapped in themselves too

Now I'm in bed and the world's moving around me and I'm up and moving too but I'm still stuck here

I want to leave and know something else but this is all I'll ever know

These stone walls of memories, these flashes of desires, always the empty spaces where there should be doors leading to other tunnels

Let us know each other

Please

Nothing.

I guess I have nothing to do but keep going with this life that's mine

Keep trying to find my way into other people's realities, keep knowing I'll never really make it, just like they can't see mine

Please come in, I want you to know me

Let our lives intersect

Twine as close as they can

They'll never touch and never trade lenses but they can tint each other with the other’s color

I once heard someone say that sculptures are like moving pictures. That's not to say that the pieces are alive or sentient. But that the fluidity of their third dimensional forms seem to give the audience a sense of movement. And that is exactly what I felt when I first set eyes on The Glass Lady. Made entirely of clear crystal, the life-sized figurine was the shining star of St Gerald's Art Gallery. People from all across the country came to see it, overcome by the intricacy of her flowing gown and the delicate strands of hair blowing in an invisible wind. But what truly drew the visitors attention was the woman's face. She appeared to be crying, crystalized tears running down her face. It was as though the artist had captured her in time, immortalizing her sorrow for all to see. I was enraptured. I had never seen anything quite so beautiful. Her eyes, like the Mona Lisa's, seemed to follow me as I moved. The small black plaque, where the artist's name was usually written, was blank. I remember asking the man next to me if he knew who had worked on the piece, but he too had no answer. No one seemed to know exactly who the artist was, only that they were a friend of the gallery's owner, and the only correspondence they had had with the director had been by telephone, and that they wished to remain anonymous. I stared in an equal measure of awe and puzzlement at the woman's crying face, and I remember thinking about the kinds of people who can create such beautiful art and not want to claim credit. But as I continued to stare into those shining glass eyes, I began to wonder if the sculpture was a manifestation of the artist themselves. That perhaps they too felt made of glass.

My body is heavy as I drag it, even to sit up to type.

Drag it to my car. Drag it through work. Through emotions I'm sure I'd feel,

A mimic replicating, yet in my own flesh still.

Hopefully someone calls for a priest, or a torture, or something to make me feel like I'm myself again,

I stare at the screen- nail marks my own on my cheeks burning in the light.

I do not know how to write. Yet is has always been the only thing I've ever known.

What shall I say? What topic shall I choose?

Tapering from a medicine I've known all my sentient life?

Emotional abuse from the one I've trusted beyond all for years?

Sadness that I cannot sell my novel?

Apathy at my lack of trying?

It is not burnout. Perhaps I am jaded. Perhaps cynicism. It will wear off like a scab eventually. Until then, I have no creativity. No art. No words. Nothing important or anything to care for.

Man, am I the greatest author to exist. Wordless and mouthy like the most infamous.

1999: the year my country fell. You can still find it standing, just barely, hobbling along on one leg as serpents nip at its heels. But that's the year everything changed.

Venezuela was a proud country, a rich country, even. My people had grown fat off the rich oil reserves nestled deep underground, had thrived as the epicenter of Latin American media. As with most periods of boundless prosperity, there's always something lurking in the shadows, ready to snuff out its light. There's always someone waiting in the wings for their chance to leech off the power and wealth my country once laid claim to.

No one ever really predicts that their home country will fall. Not just a simple tumble, either, but a chaotic descent into a black pit with vipers squirming around in the darkness below. My people are dying of hunger while up to their necks in the thick tar that once fed them, slowly drowning as it fills their mouths. How can a nation fall into such extreme poverty while sitting on such rich reserves of liquid gold? The answer: greed. Egomaniacs just have to come and ruin everything.

First they brought their promises: promises of growth, of wealth, that all those hungry mouths piled high in the slums of Petare would pull themselves out of poverty if they just elected one man. The populist. The common man. The thief. They donned their red shirts and tagged buildings with political slogans. They campaigned for a man who pledged to take all their worries away if we just handed him a little bit of power. Just a little, to start. That's all he needed, right?

He got his picture taken with the poor farmers in their shantytowns, shook their hands, told them to their faces that things would all be different. I guess he was right about that. Things were never the same once he entered office.

Everything comes at a price. Venezuela was sold to the highest bidder and ransacked until all that remained was hyperinflation and nationalized industries. The landscape slowly changed as the buildings came down. Companies started leaving the country, fleeing behind the first wave of migration.

1999. The year the first wave of Venezuelans first left in search of new homes. Among them, a young couple with a toddler in tow. She was too young then to understand why she had to leave the rest of her family behind, to understand why she had to go to a new school where everyone spoke a strange language she had only started to pick up from international television shows. The kids made fun of her for the rice and beans in her lunchbox. She never did like peanut butter.

As the years passed, the infrastructure back home slowly crumbled. The earth reclaimed power lines, growing thick tangles of vines around the aging equipment. Turquoise waves once lapped at clean, white-powder shores. Now waves of blackouts ran through the country several times per week, sometimes even per day.

The years brought more waves of migration out of the country. Some were more welcoming than others. Some could not possibly understand what it was like to have to start over in a strange land with a strange language, trying every day to forget that they might not ever see home again. As long as I was the "right" skin color, they could pick and choose when to conveniently forget that I was different. But god, they didn't let me forget it when it supported their narrative. Some would look at me like a specimen on a glass slide, marveling at my lack of a pesky accent.

Most of my family is scattered across the globe now. I guess I should be grateful at that fact. At least they're not stuck back home under the thumb of an oppressive regime. But I can't help but think of spending holidays at my grandpa's ranch, collecting eggs from the chicken coop in the morning and climbing up to pick avocados from the tree. We'll never be in one place again. We're doomed to live out the rest of our lives thousands of miles apart.

When things get just a smidge safer, we're able to lower our defenses and visit home once more. It's bittersweet, knowing we can never stay and knowing we'll always leave someone behind. But these times are few and far between as crime continues to take hold of my country. Narco-terrorists rule the land, kidnapping people when it conveniences them. You can't wear brand-name clothes or visible jewelry or it'll be ripped off your neck in the street. You can't pull out your phone at a traffic light, or a motorcycle will drive up and take it from your hands at gunpoint.

What hurts to see is that so many Venezuelans still walk around with their red hats adorned with eight stars of the new flag. When Chavez came in, he changed the Constitution like it was a page in his scrapbook. He added an eighth star to the flag without explanation. My family believes it was meant to represent him. A terrible stain on the nation for the end of time. He's long gone now, but his circle remains in power. The corrupt line continues to pass down governance and an ever-increasing wealth built off the broken backs of my people.

I should be thankful that my parents had the good sense to see Chavez for who—or what—he really was twenty-five years ago. And I am, up to a point. But it's clouded by my resentment for the Venezuela that could have been. The Venezuela that should be today. My country was pillaged and stripped down to its bones, leaving death and destruction in its wake.

It's easy for us now in the first world to put this worst case scenario out of our minds. We're separated by oceans and years from the worst of it. It could never happen here, right? We grow complacent. We plug our ears and cover our eyes to avoid seeing those raiding the national coffers for their own benefit. We think it's just something that happens to other people. I hope to god they're right. Because I can't do this all over again.

Hello there,

My name is Lisa. I am 25 years old. And I have psychic abilities. I am at the point in my life where my soul, mind and body are ready to open up to this. It would take me hours to write how I came to this point. But I can describe the context as it is now. I reached a sense of inner peace that has been present for months now. Not only that, I also moved to the north of Norway two and a half weeks ago. Away from the overstimulating city, and reunited with my love, the northern nature. Pretty soon after I arrived, I started to get some hints. That now was the time. That I had reached the level of *readiness* that is required for the next stage in my journey.

Lately, I've been expressing my personal and spiritual journey more in the online space, particularly Instagram and YouTube. But what's currently happening inside of me, requires focus. It's a vulnerable topic, that is believed by few, and I cannot let external energy seep into this part of my journey. That's what I learned today when I shared the topic with my brother and my mother. With people who are there with a lot of love, but who are not there in spiritually. I understand them. The skepticism, the unbelief. They are particularly skeptical because I am entering an online Soul Alignment program with a channeler and energy-healer that costs quite a lot of money, to say the least. So they are afraid that the money won't outweigh the value of the program. But how can I explain that I know with my whole soul that this is the right program for me? I can't. Or, I can, and I did, but that doesn't sound particularly convincing to them. Which I fully and completely understand. It hasn't been too long ago - maybe about four years - that I still believed that when we die, we rot in a our grave, and that's it. That people who believed in spirituality and religion were a bit naive. So who am I to judge people who judge? We have our own beliefs. We are in different stages of the spiritual journey. Plus, there are different things to awaken to, depending on your soul's journey and purpose. Some wake up to extraterrestrial beings. Some wake up to the spirits of the dead. Some follow a more shamanistic path. Others go the Buddhist way. My closest soulfriend and I recently took distance because we are both awakening seriously and we are here with a strong purpose. She takes the Buddhist path, and I, well, I don't think I can put it in a few words, and I have yet to discover what the heck is about to happen in my journey. But, yeah, nature, the spirit realm and energy healing are involved. So that sounds quite shamanistic doesn't it? But, I can't and I won't put my journey in a box. I do not like boxes, they are limiting.

So as I was saying, by talking to my closest family about this very delicate topic, I let external energy inside. What do I mean with that? Every thought and emotion carries electromagnetic energy. Energy is information. After having talked with them, their beliefs are tangible inside my mind and body, disconnecting me from my inner knowing, disturbing my energy, confusing my mind, and blurring my vision. Because this is not an easy journey. It takes me a lot of courage and going through the fire of anxiety to push through with this. I do not have another option, and I think that is something that people who are not going through a spiritual awakening, have a hard time understanding. Yes there is this top-down process where I have the mindset to grow and to awaken as much as possible. But also that, is driven by a strong bottom-up force that has been driving my journey all along. It's like taking a decent dose of psychedelics. It's not like *you* go on the journey. The psychedelic takes you on the journey. Just like the awakening takes me on this journey. And this part of my awakening...dear lord. My ego is shaking her head: "Spirit guides? Angels? Akashic records reading? Psychic abilities? Really? Could it *get* more spiritual?"

And my soul is saying: "I am sorry babes, but yes, it can get more spiritual. You better surrender, cause we have a lot in store for you." "Oh my", my ego says.

I am going all in. And again, this is as much a conscious choice as it is just the force inside of me that is pulling me to that which has to be done. But for this part of my journey, I have to close the door to others. However, I still feel a strong urge to document this journey and share it somewhere. So I thought, why not use my dear account on Prose? Where I can share anything, and at the same time be invisible.

It so happens that I had a little surgery on my foot and that I cannot work for ten days. I have to "rest". Divine timing. What happens when a person is forced to rest? One has to surrender to the feminine. Being, feeling, sensing. And what resides in the divine feminine? Magic. I thanked the universe when I heard that I should not walk on my foot too much for ten days. I looked in the mirror, and smiled, "I know what to do".

I came home from the hospital, sat down in my bed, and typed into the YouTube search bar: "Open up psychic abilities meditation". I did a few meditations and went to sleep with a happy heart. One hour later, I started to hear many birds, ravens more specifically, through my right ear. The exact ear where I felt a kind of stingy sensation during one of the meditations. My whole face trembled from the inside out, as if I am channeling an animal, kind of like a lion or a bear that is roaring. I also started to see some images, I don't remember them quite well because they were vague. But it had to do with nature and I saw a lake.

I realized that I had to completely surrender this time. These kinds of phenomena are not entirely unfamiliar to me. I finally understood why I've been experiencing sleep-paralysis since 2018 and trippy dreams since last year. It is because I am psychic, and information tries to come through me.

My foot starts to really hurt now. The anesthesia is wearing off. What were the doctors thinking to not send me home with painkillers? I have these light paracetamol pills. Maybe I should take a few, and try to fall back asleep.

Either way I think I am about done with writing for today. You will hear more from me. Writing about this is very therapeutic. My first official session of the Soul Alignment program is November 26th. But I think a lot is going to happen in between.

I am going to leave you for now, and I send you much love, because you took the time to read all the way to here <3.

Will be continued...

Ever since last year's Christmas party, my life at the office hasn't been the same.

The first few days after the "incident", as I've taken to calling it, I could barely bring myself to come into work at all. The following few weeks, I had tried to stay as inconspicuous as possible. I had to get used to the whispers whenever I frequented the ladies room, and the muffled laughter as I passed someone in the hall. I even grew used to the stares I received in the company breakroom.

A good piece of advice: never get too drunk at a company party, at least... not too drunk that you try and make out with your married boss, especially when his wife is sitting at the table beside him.

So, as you can probably guess, I wasn't filled with joy or excitement when I received the dreaded annual invite in my inbox. What I did feel was that all-too-familiar feeling of anxiety prickling at my stomach.

I let out a long breath through my lips, a technique I learned in my weekly therapy sessions. It did help. Somewhat.

"Are you alright, Trish?" That was Jessica, my coworker and one of the only friends I had left in the office.

I give her a reassuring smile, "Yeah, don't worry. Everything's fine."

She doesn't seem to buy it though, because the next second she's rolling her neon green swivel chair across the narrow hall and right into my cubicle.

"It's me, Trish. What is it?" she asks.

She doesn't even wait for a response, and instead leans over my shoulder to glance at my computer screen. When she sees the subject line of my most recent email, she winces sympathetically.

"Well..." she says, and I can see the gears turning in her head, trying to think of something positive to say. There isn't.

"Look, it doesn't really matter. I'm not going." I say, exiting my email with a loud click.

Jessica's brown eyes widen imperceptibly, as if she's really shocked that I would choose to avoid the chance to embarrass myself for a second time.

"But you have to go," she says, "what happened last year is old news. You can't just avoid every office party until you retire... or quit... whatever comes first. You have to face your fears at some point."

When I don't say a word, she shoves my shoulder.

"Quit it. I'm trying to work here." I say, shoving her back, "and why do you care, anyway?"

"Because," she whines, "I can't go to this party alone."

I roll my eyes, "Gee, thanks. Hey, why don't you ask Jeff to go with you?"

I can almost see the face she's making, even with my back turned. It's no secret that every woman in the office has a crush on Jeff Goodacre, the best consultant in our office. He has that perfect polished look about him; clean hair, shaven, crisp collar, great smile. He's clever and polite to a fault. Probably the best consultant in the whole damn company.

Sometimes he seemed just a little too perfect. But aside from Jess, he's the only one who's shown me any kind of compassion or civility since the incident last Christmas.

Jessica scoffs loudly, "as if he wouldn't already have a date. Or three." A sigh, "but... I guess a girl can dream."

It's now quarter past five, and most of my colleagues have already left for the day. Jessica pulls on her puffer jacket and her gloves, her long blonde hair draped over her shoulder.

"Are you coming?" she asks, pausing at my desk.

"No, I have to finish some of these reports first. I should be done within the hour."

She shrugs, and then blows me a little kiss, "get home safe."

"You too."

An hour goes by and the remaining few people working have long since left. Most of the lights on my floor have been shut off, and the glow from my computer screen now seems insanely bright in the relative darkness.

I'm always struck by how quiet it gets without all the regular chatter and work noise. The only sound that can be heard is the low hum of the air conditioning and the clicking from my keyboard.

A wave of exhaustion washes over me, and as I think about the forty-five minute drive ahead of me, I decide it's probably time to wrap up and head home. But first I need to use the restroom.

As I'm exiting the ladies room, I hear a sound coming from down the hall. It sounds like the staircase door being opened.

I step out of the little enclave where the restrooms are and peer down the dark hallway. It's empty. I worry for a moment that the tiredness is getting to me, but then I hear footsteps. Thud, thud, thud.

Someone else is definitely here.

I wait, listening. From the corner of my eye, I see a man walking through the row of cubicles. I catch sight of his face in the glow of my computer screen as he passes by my desk.

It's Jeff.

I breathe a sigh of relief, realizing that a small part of me worried it was an intruder.

I'm about to call out to him, let him know that I haven't just forgotten to shut down my computer for the day but was trying to finish up some work.

My voice falters when I notice the look on his face.

He's... smiling. But not a happy or even pleasant smile. It's mocking. Mean. And I know that I've become the office pariah this past year, but Jeff never saw me like the others did.

Or rather, I thought he didn't. Now I'm not too sure what to think. I watch in disbelief as he sits down at my desk and begins scrolling through my work. His shoulders are tense and his head is drawn low. His face contorts.

I can't help but jump when his fist comes crashing down on the keyboard. He begins muttering. Through a string of curse words, he mentions the party last year, our boss, my drinking. Calls me a tramp.

Instinctively I reach into my pocket to grab my keys, but my heart drops when I realize they're still sitting in my purse in the desk drawer, along with my jacket. Hopefully he doesn't notice them and realize I'm still here.

As if he can hear my thoughts, he spins around. I push myself flush against the wall, hoping he doesn't notice me. I hold my breath, blood pounding in my ears.

I've never felt this scared in my life. It's as if all the muscles in my body are wound like coils, just waiting to spring.

A few moments pass, and I hear the door to the staircase being opened again. I peek around the corner.

The office is empty. Jeff is gone.

I hurry back to my cubicle and collect my things, fingers fumbling to pull on my jacket as I head to the elevator. No way in hell am I taking the stairs.

I watch anxiously as the buttons light up on the elevator panel. Third floor, second floor, first floor... basement.

The elevator doors barely have a chance to open before I'm stepping off into the parking lot. A wave of relief washes over me when I spot my green Toyota Camry fifty feet away.

I reach into my purse to grab my keys, and falter. The pocket is empty. My keys are gone.

My mother always had her birthday-

the one thing my father remembered, due to his children's tentative reminders.

Her stocking was always half full, and most years she was the one to fill it.

She only did it halfway, herself, too, feeling undeserving, thanking Santa for the sake of our happiness.

Belittled by a man with a wandering eye, a cabinet filled with vases that hadn't housed flowers in twenty years.

I remedy it now. I give her an oversized stocking overflowing with love and gratitude,

flowers on every holiday, treats just because.

Some women fear their daughters will make fun of their own mother at their fathers behest,

but I am nothing like my father. I am my mother's mirror image- one that will never insult, or spout insecurity.

I find it funny that there is a trope representing autistic folk as loners because I am anything but that. I am however, pretty nerdy. I have good scores on tests, but I don't really care about school. I would much rather go learn on my own and I'm getting really tired of math. My special interest is folklore. I could drown you in the cultural significance of a wall, any wall. I could rant to you for ages about the irreversible catastrophe that is colonization (I'm white as fuck by the way). The Aztecs are fascinating and I so want to understand their knot work. A fully knotted laguage as well as numbers, written language, sign language, dialects and so much more. I could asphyxiate from excitement right here and now if literally anyone could teach me anything there is to know.

Sadly, that is not possible and school is a living nightmare; the noise, the confusion of people actually wanting to talk to me and be my friend, the figuring out of teachers and vending machines, the constant misgendering. I have had enough. But everyday, I wake up looking forward to school because I get to see the tisms (autism friends). They have special interests and such a love for life, I can't explain it.

Each of us struggle so much. Yet despite it all, manage to get through a day, play some pokemon, learn a song, do some art, watch my little pony and be queer. It's an accomplishment. One for which we support each other. We each know how hard it is for the other. We know why they suddenly switch to ASL instead of English or why my best friend always brings a teddy bear to school. It is because getting through each day with a genuine smile on your face is an accomplishment, one of the best accomplishments. So, you can call me a weirdo. I know why. I know it's strange to bring a model dragon to school and sneak an extra writing notebook into class instead of drugs but its something that brings me joy and that is way too fucking hard to find.

The man chain smoked on the park bench several yards from where I'd settled. He looked over at me as I played fetch with his little French Bulldog for about an hour. I had no business in the dog park, really, being in town without a dog.

I just went out for a walk. The hotel had grown too small and the world outside just a little too large; the relative quiet of the Tribeca park was a nice compromise between New York City and me. The fact that it was a dog park was a happy accident. No one seemed to mind me being there, quietly petting or playing with the furry visitors as they came by to pay respects.

This man's dog, though. She was different. She took a shine to me as soon as I shut the iron gate and sat on an empty bench. She was a stout little thing, fifteen pounds of muscle in a seven pound frame. The little critter actually reminded me of the cartoon bulldog from Tom & Jerry in shape if not size. Her front legs were like oversized arms on a bodybuilder, with her rear legs like that same bodybuilder who ignored leg days. She snuffled at me and dropped a ball at my feet.

I looked up at her owner, and he gave a tiny nod. Permission granted to play, from behind a veil of tobacco smoke. I grinned, and tossed the ball across the park and the feisty little bulldog fetched. This went on for the better part of an hour, not a word was spoken, and I lost count of how many times the flare of a Zippo caught my eye.

Finally, flicking away his last butt, the man slid to the end of his bench and turned towards me. He stood, straightening a tan trenchcoat that fell from his shoulders like it'd hung there for years. Watching us continue to play fetch, he spoke in what I immediately clocked as a British accent. I'm terrible with identifying them beyond "British," it could have been somewhere in London or the countryside, I don't know.

"That ain't my dog, bruv," he said. I was surprised to see a new unlit cigarette between his pointing fingers. "Nope. I'm just watchin' 'er for a bit. Thank you for playin' with the thing. Saved me the trouble."

I smiled. "It's been fun. A nice distraction from...everything." I tried to keep melancholy out of my voice, but it always has a way of creeping in around all the edges.

"Mate. It ain't my business, but what brings you to the city?"

"Family stuff." I wasn't going to tell this stranger that back in my hotel room were ashes to be spread at places in the city that meant a lot to someone I cared about.

He nodded, not comprehending, but understanding. I gave him a weak smile as thanks for his refusal to press the issue.

"You notice how that little mutt keeps droppin' the ball just out of your reach every other time she fetches?" I had noticed, in fact. We'd established a pattern: after about four throws, she'd break in the shade, lying with her legs splayed so her belly would rest on the cold autumn concrete. I was comfortable in the crisp air, but several people around us were wearing sweaters or coats. The little Frenchie was obviously getting heated with all the exercise. Every other throw, though, she'd drop the ball too far to my right, almost like she thought I was sitting on that side of the bench instead of leaning on the left armrest. I'd tell her to bring it to me, she'd stare up at the empty seat, look over at me, then kick the little ball so it would roll into my hand. I thought it was a clever trick, but odd that she kept doing it that way instead of bringing it directly to me.

"Yeah, it's strange. Like she forgets where I'm sitting."

The man nodded, grunting in what I assumed was an affirmative.

"It's not that, mate."

She dropped the ball at the opposite end of the bench again.

I looked over that way, then back up to the blonde chainsmoker.

He reached into a coat pocket, handed me a plain white business card. I thanked him, looked at the card, and then back at him. "So, Mr. John Constantine, what kind of work do you do?"

He paused, lit yet another cigarette, and stooped down to hook up the bulldog to a leash. He didn't answer until he'd taken a couple of long, contemplative drags.

"Mate, when you ever need me, call me. I don't know what brings you here to the City, but what I do know? You ain't been sittin ’ere on this bench alone, and the mutt knows it, too."

I should have felt a cold chill, but instead, all I felt was happy.

“I have wondered if thee will marry,” his father said.

Elnathan looked up from his rabbit stew.

“It is a part of life,” Samuel Holm said, and he ate another bite.

They had built this house together. They had mortared the stones for the foundation, hewn the floor joists, notched the logs they stacked and chinked with rocks and straw and clay. They shared one bed. Through all of it, they had never spoken of marriage, love, or any future beyond tasks to perform. They had left their first farm five years ago, and in that time, Elnathan had heard six directives from his father for every word of conversation.

He studied the older man in the fading dusk, debating whether his father meant to test him. “The Friend says men should live in the Spirit, not in the flesh,” Elnathan said.

Samuel Holm lifted his bowl to his lips. Elnathan noticed his father’s hands trembling again, as they had since his illness the preceding year; Samuel Holm had spent less time carving or whittling since. He wiped his arm across his graying beard to erase the tell-tale drops of broth. He folded his hands on the table and watched them, as though guarding their stillness. “Thee is nineteen. If thee did not shave it, thy beard would be full by this time.”

“Men shave their beards. Thee is the only man I see to wear one.”

“Thee would think of little else beside marriage, if thee lived in any other place,” Samuel Holm continued. He lifted his eyes. “There are things important to a young man.”

Elnathan laughed. “Thee think me a young boy indeed, if thee think to explain such things.”

Samuel Holm returned his eyes to his hands. One of their cows lowed nearby.

“Thee was not so old when my mother left time,” Elnathan said, “and thee never thought to remarry.”

“That I did not discuss the matter with my son does not mean I did not of think it.”

Elnathan watched his father, awaiting further words, some sign. Samuel Holm sat quietly with hands folded on the table he had made.