I wasn’t planning to write. I don’t know what I would write but I read something. I read something about being alive, being here, right now, in this moment. Part of being alive, for me, is writing: it’s where I remember, where I feel, where I unfold. Unfolding is slow, sometimes painstakingly slow. Something I haven’t allowed myself. Ancient Peoples set up physical remembrances: a pile of stones here, a carved tree there, each commemorating a significance, something they and the others shouldn’t forget. Today, I pile these words, on this page, my remembrance. When I pass by I’ll remember: Unfold.