by Rebecca Bernard
We are filled with bones. We carry them with us, daily. The mind changes. The bones change too. But the change is not quite the same. In aging, some bones become hollow. Does this make us bird-like?
As a child, I disliked birds. I preferred dinosaurs. Did the one evolve from the other? We are animals moving thickly forward in space and time. My niece forms castles from rocks. Things remain the same, but perspective changes. Dinosaurs become birds. The brontosaurus never existed. A pile of stones is a pile of stones is a castle. I have a collar bone. Once, it was broken. In mirrors, I see it reflected. Everything is cyclical, but nothing feels cyclical. Each day is new so how might it be seen as being like any other? How close must we look? In gestation did I have a collar bone or did my mother, briefly, have two?
Yesterday I wanted X. Now I want X. What is constant if all things are variables? The changing nature of change. I sit in the mush of my own brain. Has the mush changed over the past five years or is it the outlook? It would seem that life follows an imperfect circle. The tree it forms keeps growing. It is still a tree, not a bird. It is round and wide.
Time is happening. I must hold onto my bones. They remain inside.