Resurrection

The dead still walk within our memories, and breathe and smile and talk inside that strange preserve we keep, a room still redolent with life above the boxes where they sleep. What irony prevails, that we may call them forth upon a whim as frozen servants microwaved, enjoyed, and then returned at will to their uncertain rest. Might we indulge them, favoring a spirit laugh at our audacity? Might they indeed, be guiding us inside our stumbling bones, inside this diorama quite obsessed by touch? We might do well to understand they fly to us with such astounding love to fill our reminiscenses upon demand, and yet with sad politeness fade away at suppertime. ~