Hymn

The crickets sing each night, starting at dusk. Not one or two, but thousands, each telling the entire story. Every year, again this year, they return to remind me of what I have forgotten, and what I keep forgetting. One might think the madness of these creatures would reveal their lesson. Perhaps the clamor of sound is a warning. “Ah, remember this, or they’ll be back!” But something is lost then, between dusk and when the birds return, and the frenzy of cricket song yields to the birds’ morning hymn. The birds don’t care if I forget again. They lull me into forgetting and the soft bliss of not remembering. That is sweetness.