A mind exposed to something new is like a pet whose bedding is changed. The animal needs to sniff everything, secrete oils upon the fresh paper, chew up a comfortable nest, drag things around not to better places but to known and deliberate places. The home is cleaner but stranger and requires energy. And when the new bedding is poured in, a curious one will push her nose up toward the bag of aspen chips, blinking and dodging yet arrowed toward the source. Then she jumps inside the bag itself. She wants to understand how the changing works, where it comes from. Would that the mind be as desirous to climb into the source of creativity and move about within.
She’s growing thin and wobbly. Can’t eat like she used to. She seems to have lost her sense of smell, and her eyes are tired, half-closed. We buried her sister on the mountain last summer; by now the snow is falling over the body. Where will we bury her? It is too cold to dig the earth now. Sometimes I hear her struggle, from the next room, where I sit and read library books and pretend not to think of her. I wish she would die and get it over with, and also I wish for her to linger, for us to enjoy what is left of her company for a few days more. Thus, I give her peanut butter, but not vitamins—love, but not a fight.