A generation goes, a generation comes, but the earth remains forever. Ecclesiastes 1:4 The sun rises against its will would choose the comfortable quilt of darkness over ineluctable morning. The earth turns. Obvious things, mentioned for the obviousness of things, the tiresome rote of days. Yet beneath, something different. Something new. Swelling, pulsing, throbbing like unsatisfied longing, hangover from a future held politely to the lips but not drunk. Something is passing away— disease, an order, a way of life, a dream— We will all survive this, we are told. Some, not all. José Ameal survived the Spanish Flu. Nineteen eighteen. He was four. From his bed he peeked through drawn curtains looked outside to watch the souls passing by— “so many dead”— on the streets of Luarca in north Spain. Did he wonder if his turn would come? He lived to be imprisoned by Franco, bury his wife in ’fifty-one, marry another and live fifty more good years. Something is passing away. We peek through drawn curtains at the procession of souls. We wonder if today our turn will come. Tomorrow the sun will rise reluctant, as though choosing its darkling quilt over inevitable morning. The earth turns.