Beginnings

are wondrous things. A beginning might purport a preceding end, which is a death of sorts. It could be a circling back to something old that had been forgotten, an unearthing (accidental or otherwise) of buried loves, an act of resurrecting, of breathing hope into a previously abandoned dream. It could be a picking up of a scattered life. It could be a fresh start, altogether--one small, but prominent, stroke on a sheet of paper. It could be that sheet of paper, too, clean, white, unscented.