What does forgiveness look like? Freshly cut forest clearing, allowing a fluttering checkered cloth to be spread with fruit and bread? The end of a provoking novel and beginning of a new, pages scented with first opening? Some would say a rising from the dead, but my faith is spread now among the open spaces of the seldom traversed, sometimes whispering, sometimes dazzling bright landscape. The way it feels now – what I long for – is the waking from an exhausted, heavy sleep, dreamless and gray. But first I must rest and my eyes are too occupied to close. Succumbing though, feels near, and I am afraid of not waking. Not despairing of forever sleep is what I’d call hope.