She put bloqueo automático on 4 minutes and set her phone down, screen up on her bare thigh.

She looked out the front window and felt it take her.

That sudden joy her friend had just been talking about, reading Mary Oliver aloud. She almost resisted it, but she remembered, and she was swept away.

Swept into trees she’d grown with since the day she was born. Nudged into soft warm lamplight beckoning from the cobblestone pathway where she and Salt and Merlín and Scotch walked together. Blown into rush of candles lit on July birthday cakes. Led into nostrils of hay and manure and horse sweat, knocked into soft hard wood of brush in her hands. Rushed into coming home. Pressed into the familiar folds of her own moulding. Slumped into knowing home might never come here again. Sighed into spiraling pain and enormous relief of goodbye. Rocked into yipping symphony and warbling howls of traveling coyotes in blanketed night on rolling prairie — landscape of her.

She looked down at her phone to see the progress of the voice memo, thumb poised to turn the volume back up once the memo hit halfway.

44 seconds had passed.

Not even a minute.

A moment, then, she thought. All it takes is a moment for all of life to enter you.