I'm Adeli Mone and this is The Slowdown.

Even though I was raised as an atheist, I was always fascinated by the idea of a resurrection.

It seemed to make absolute sense that someone could die and then return.

Why wouldn't you roll back the stone once in a while and come back to the land of the

living?

It was hard for me to understand and perhaps it still is that someone could just be gone

forever.

And even if I could grasp the death of the body, I could never comprehend the death of the

soul and whatever it is that makes us who we are.

And so here I am, an adult woman who believes in ghosts, who believes that the veil is

thin between the world of the living and the world of the dead.

To be clear, it's not that I see ghosts everywhere.

It's just that I think resurrection is more complicated than the scriptures.

And resurrection means bringing someone back into the mind, into the heart and therefore

into the room.

I heard it once said that writing can be an act of resurrection.

In today's wonder of a poem by Wayne Miller, we witness a child try to comprehend what

death is and how odd it is to realize that he is both powerless and powerful.

When it comes to bearing and unbearing, what he loves.

Parable of childhood by Wayne Miller.

When the dog finally died, dad dug a hole beside the fence and buried her in a boot box.

She's gone, but you had a good life, mom said.

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