The pine tree, cleansing itself of twigs. Strings of silk float from the branches, weaving the moment into time. This bubble silver and shinning like the moon droplets adorning the cheeks of each member of the gathering, a testament to grief and life everlasting. Acid and salt, open and fester, clawing at their insides in long strokes. They bleed, but not outwardly. My mother holds a shovel. The family stands in a chain, one has a foot in the grave and the others hold his hand, lower him down, the next steps in. They throw dirt, the youth without knowing why but aiding the old in their passing, seeing what is to come. I took no part in the burial, everything was shapes and primary colors, an abstract I failed to make meaning of in the swirling world. Upside down, I hold the mother. "Do you see what you can do?" And then I knew. "Anything" always seemed cliché, and I underestimated how vast the term really was. In that moment with the ripe pollen leaving a bit of life in each of us and it created in me a sprout of understanding. I knew what anything was and I had a moment where I saw what everything was, a quick glimpse of the other.