Maybe everything gets easier someday. Maybe that’s what heaven is. Maybe sometimes you get to choose between watching the murmuration of starlings for hours on end or sitting silently with someone you love for days or gathering pecans for as long as you want (as long as you eat a few along the way).
The interior of a pecan’s armor is grotesque, gnarly, delicate, a cave system you can hold in your hand. Armor and flesh, every ridge and twist, the mirror image found in the other. Keep the armor as a souvenir. Rattle the pieces in your hand. Sample the sound, place it carefully in a song. Slow the fuck down (it puts less, unfair pressure on those around you). At least pretend.