In the green silence of memory, a record turns, and the room leans in. I hold to what she left unsaid: "Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it." Norwegian wood — this bird has flown. I walk the dark with my own shadow. What was lived, and what was lost, stays in the grain, stays in the frost. Her hands, her absence, the long wait between one name and the next, one room and a dream. "I don't know," is all I can keep; the heart remembers what the mind can’t keep. Norwegian wood — this bird has flown. I walk the dark with my own shadow. What was lived, and what was lost, stays in the grain, stays in the frost. Death is not the opposite of life… …it’s a part of it. Norwegian wood — this bird has flown. I walk the dark with my own shadow. What was lived, and what was lost, stays in the grain, stays in the frost. Norwegian wood… …this bird has flown.
