You question me when I say that all loss is permanent and temporary. How can that be, you say when I can’t even remember what I ate on this day in 1983, or the color of her hair when she turned 102. Without flinching I reply without saying a word or sparing an empty platitude, that all loss isn’t even loss, that every moment, every seed, every blade of grass is imprinted on eternity, even what some might refer to as the ultimate I Am. Existence, you say, is finite. Even if the globe should fall heroically and unequivocally into the sun, and a disembodied voice intones emphatically, NO HEAVEN FOR YOU, certainly all things must pass. You remain silent as I reply, just because everything slips away doesn’t mean it doesn’t return to where it came from. That’s how it is, after all with you and me and me and you, one two, one two.