Sometimes, you travel somewhere and leave something behind: the body of your pain, which is taken into so many mouths and carried into the air and consumed and changed and spread until it becomes one with earth, water, air, and fire. Until it transmogrifies, and you think finally, finally, because you’re ready to let it go. You wanted to let it go a long time ago but now you can, so you do, and your doing becomes something done, something you did, have done, as if the past in all its verb forms exists independent of the present, as if you exist now and only now. And right now, you do. That’s exactly what you do. You are here, sometimes, whole and aware of your wholeness. Say hello to who you are.