A mirror in time my life has become, the doors to my soul open wide. What couldn’t I be? What couldn’t I find when boundaries fell to the side?

As I am I will go to my Maker, I don’t need to pretend to be more. I stand as I am from now on. As I am is enough. As I am I bare my soul.

On being here, on living here, on being lived by me: one for the stone, two for the wind, three for the perfect sea.

I live in my heartbeat, in the taste of my coffee, in the lightheaded awe of looking up at trees, in the wind on my skin, surprisingly cool on a bright summer morning, startling goose bumps.

Other people gathered porcelain figurines, or commemorative plates, or coins, or rare stamps, or thimbles. Mrs. Thornby gathered dust.