Wonder

At the age of 92, in the last bit of time before the sun went out, Meijer spent a goodly portion of his time dedicated to memory. He opened the boxes of loose photographs stored in the spare room and remembered; he re-read his favorite books (at least the passages that had changed him). He wrote a few love letters (proper longhand declarations) and pushed them out into the endless bitter cyclone the spring breezes had become, trusting the screaming wind to deliver them in its way. Meijer kept the fire going as best he could, and wrote everything unsaid on the inside walls of his home. "I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections," he whispered, thinking that he might be quoting Keats (not that it really mattered). When he'd used the last of the wood, he'd wrap himself in wool and words and let his life blink out in wonder of it all.