And I say to myself: Here is the road that is mine. I have walked its length, in rain I have waded, in snow I have turned and seen only my own prints. I have left, I have returned, but in the Spring when life goes forward, there is still a path nestled in the coneflowers and goldenrod. I have traveled far, lived lives without this road, and gifted it to those I have trusted, but in the woods or on any street, in dark of night or blinding morning clarity I count my steps and see no distance gained. I have learned that I know very little. I have learned that what cannot be left behind by leaving can not be given away, and must be returned to, if not now, a little ways down the road.