The sage hangs in the air, the white smoke curling around our bodies.  I walk out of the circle into the arms of the mother, the living, breathing forest bowing before the power of the sea crashing into the cliff face below.  I can feel the power of misty salt water drops on my arms.  I can feel the energy of place.

I turn to walk away, our weekend technically over.  I step on the bridge as though traversing the landscape of ancestors long ago calling in the directions.  As I wind up to the top of the hill I can see Biz packing up.  Her head jerks left and right.  Her shoulders tight against the muscles in her back.  She tugged against the weight of the sandbags.

"May I help you?" I ask.

"Can you move all of these over there?" She asked back.

I look down at my feet and see it lying there.  There, at the base of this massive elm tree, branches reaching out and flat, the leaves quaking like a baby's rattle.  The sea crashing.  The eucalyptus on my skin.  The dream catcher guarding from a branch, moving with the music in the wind.  I look down at my feet and see it lying there.

I can see the outside of our door.  It comes from the pages of a Home Depot catalog.  I can feel our bed beneath me.  On the insides of my eyelids I can see his curls.  I can see the lines on his face, the ones you can't see on an ultrasound at ten weeks.  I tell him that I will lay with him as long as he needs me to, that I will hold his hand, and to go knowing that we will always be together.  I look up and see the lines around my husband's eyes.  I see the dark spot on his pillow, newly wet.  "Are you sure?" he asks.  I feel the brittleness come back to my nails and my breasts soften.

"Did you ever think it would be this hard?" I ask him.

I look down at my feet and see it there, the brilliant green weave of moss nestled in the cradle of ground.  I kneel and place my hand over him.  His resting place.  The grave that I can come home to when there never was a body to begin with, just a bunch of gross shit I watched swirl into the toilet like bad live art before it disappeared into the sewer down below.  We used to joke we'd name him Moss.  Moss Hoffmann.  Because it is always there where we come from.  In ponderosa trees on mountainsides, thriving in pure oxygen and wild environments.  Moss Hoffmann.  Like a pro BMX biker.  I kneel in the rage of not getting to know why and in the lightness of not needing to at all. Right now we are just together again.  In the comfort and delight of having touched each other at all.

Good by, Mr. Moss.  I'll see you soon.  I'll be with you always.