That which remains.

She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth.

John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

From nothing, to being, to remembering, to being remembered, to nothing. Memories come, memories fade, become stories, get forgotten. Lost in a loosing universe; one of many. We only shape the being, we only choose the remembering.

Light snowfall decorates the pastures. Cold wind sweeps through my hair. Friends and family are with me, not only in my heart. I am as satisfied as one could be. But then, I notice it. A foreign species: standing still, patiently, waiting on the other side of the fence, observing me carefully; while the snowflakes settle in on the creatures head. I approach it slowly. My mother always taught me: If unsure what to do, just mimic your opposite – and so I do: carefully, I observe back. I fathom what happens within its mind: Are there thoughts about the landscape? The next meal? About the absurdity of our mutual and reciprocal study? Or is this creature not capable of such thoughts? Does it just dwell in this moment, right here? Enchanted by the simplicity of nature? Why does it seek our company? There are no answers, only silence. No one will know, and no one will remember. I cautiously moo to call the others – so that we can observe the pale-skinned creature together, as it is operating a small black box from time to time. Until it leaves again and we settle in for the night.