Gabrielle Brinsmead

We’ll meet again, years far from now

We’ll meet and talk; and share what’s been

Our own adventure in this shaky breath

Of our old Universe,

We’ll meet again

We’ll meet again, when our good stars align

When Death is clear, perhaps a future life

When we are ready to return to Source

Ever one soul, I know

We’ll meet again

-Ilaria Bruck

The mother of Moses sets him adrift in a basket of reeds. God protects and transforms. Which one of us walks in a way that is worthy? The mystery and magic of bulrushes, the Bible, oddly delightful memories, tying binds, new life.

Christ bears five wounds. There are five pillars of Islam, five Olympic rings, five vowels in the English language and five elements. Lucky people have five fingers on each hand and each foot. Five is a prime number, a Fibonacci number and the hypotenuse of the smallest integer-sided triangle.

There are twelve months of the year, twelve days of Christmas and twelve hours on the clock. There were twelve apostles of Christ and twelve gods of Olympus. I love both seeing and saying the number twelve: complete and divisible, when it applies to one’s young, it can be the beginning of trouble and also of entirely new beings.

Inception. The first day of the year. Fervent prayers for health and for home. Fat, flesh-colored roses. Lichen, gnarled gum leaves and insistent wind. These joys, while we discuss parties to which we are no longer invited and which we no longer wish to attend. Resolution after resolution, including: to no longer be afraid of the sun, or of being alone, to forgive, and to allow myself the luxury of feeling forgiven. To progress with more joy.

One by one, lights appear from neighboring homes. Rain clears away, leaving a Prussian blue sky streaked with stars. Families prepare to eat the least meal of the day, before going to bed and to sleep. And so do we.