"At the end of my suffering there was a door."

-"The Wild Iris", Louise Gluck-

Last night, just before I fell asleep, I remembered that May was my dark month. The thought fell in, unannounced. Just like that.

I remembered: everything that came after that May was a climb out of some hollow, some grave.

I am grateful I never really tried to find out what specific day it was in May I had begun digging, or when I stopped. Even the hour eludes me, and that's a good thing, I guess.

Those details, at least, would not come back to haunt, and the memory's edges would, somehow, be blurred.