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Now I understand.

Dance and sky. Light and wonder. You are of my love, Colibri.

I know.

Good.

I am of your love, even though I am not like you.

Yes.

Twig is of your love, even though she tires you.

Yes.

Anna and Valerie and Cass remain of your love, even though they are gone from your life.

Yes.

Your mother and father and first sister remain of your love, even though they are dead and fractionally remembered.

Yes.

Signy is becoming of your love.

Yes.

Is there an end to your love? To your capacity?

I don’t understand what that means.

I find the part of me that loves, and I think perhaps it is the same in all beings. Human, rorqual, plant.

I don’t think plants love.

How do you know?

I suppose I don’t.

I do not think you need to be able to name love or feel its shape in order to possess it. Perhaps love is merely a condition of life.

I think that is true of you, at least.

I find the part of me that loves, and I think perhaps it is the same in all beings. My love is edgeless, endless. There is no limit. It can only expand. My capacity is boundless.

Your capacity.

Yes. Love is a capacity, not a substance. If love were finite, it would be something else. This is true for you, as well.

I reach inside, and I feel the shape that holds all other shapes, and . . . oh, you’re right. You’re right. My capacity is—

—it is edgeless.

Yes. Wow. Yes.

It is you.

I need a moment.