mister does a turn on the corner of the boiler house. i wonder if he remembers the last time when we rested there and took pictures of us hugging and kissing with sun-bow drops floating like magic orbs around our faces. he never sees my pictures, but given his long memory i imagine he has his own picture album to recall from and the body archived sense of then and now.
there's a sense of loss too, knowing he was and i was younger then, and the painting my friend made of us is now my ex-friend, baristatrump. but in with the sense of loss is a sense of abiding, growing, mellowing love. and i still love the painting if i cannot abide and love the painter. i still have the photographer, the dog, and the wreck of impermanence become shoal. transcending.