The sun is ripe today, its juice dripping through the clouds' fingers. Between me and the earth, a matted pink blanket. It protects me from prickles of dry grass, but shields none of the earth's mothering love. I've napped for over an hour, and now on my blanket appears a family.
         My self, the infant, I cradle with love and reverence and a wrap of protection. My self, at three, shining with wonder under the big blue sky and drunk with a child's weariness from sipping the sun's juice. My self, at seven, much more aware and alert than the other two but itching out of her skin, now too small for her growing bones. My self, a teenager, sitting on the edge of this blanket, too angry to look at the past, too scared to embrace a future. My self, a young woman, embodying a family that lies all around me on my matted pink blanket, too small for all of us.
         I cradle them all into my breast, even the reluctant teen, and fill them with my sweet milk of wisdom. I tell them stories of a time they may not themselves remember. I caress their gentle frames, still so small and fragile. I brush their silky hairs and braid the ones that are long. We pick dandelions, blowing their magic cotton into the wind, and we watch each sacred piece whist away, withering westward, as the wind winds down, weaving their way through ... "just like you," I tell them.
         My mother, could she see this family around me, would be so proud. But the time has come to tuck them away, back into my mind or my soul. I know not from where they came, but their home is not far from mine, and occasionally they will come out to play with me on my cozy pink blanket.
         I've been here far too long, so I brush off the burrs and the crackled leaves, connect the corners, and condense the blanket into a neat little rectangle. "Eternity is all at once," my father told me. Today, eternity napped on my blanket.