The kids are hollering. Little baby goats. Just barely born, their owners are spritely 11 year olds with chicken wire legs.
They run down the mountain and along the dirt trails. Impossible to say who is frolicking and who is leading who. A lively flutter of color and limbs.
Sister Irma is singing. The same song every night. It's so beautiful.
I know in writing, one should aim for description.
But it's just beautiful.
A simple song. Sweet, and soft.
The clouds are settling in, and soon the entire house will be ensconced,
Like a secret. Like a dream.
We're all here, together.
I try and think about what matters.
And forgive me for being narrative, or cliched.
But all that matters.
Is who we have.
Who we have, and who we lose.
Who we love.
How.
How we love.
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