This is the one you remember after you die. This is the one you remember after you have disintegrated and your mind is dust and you are atoms in other states and there is no definitive you and no memory but somehow in your inexistent dust she will remain fixed in you always, a pattern imprinted into the orbit of your electrons. This one endures past your spouse and children and the memories of grass and sky, past the final lattice of light and the long wade through darkness. This one endures not as a name or vision or recognition of voice, face or movement but instead as the suggestion of a hue or faintness of a single, complex note. This is the one the larkspur and kestrel spun from your dust are born remembering, awaken with some notion of her existence, a deep longing to meet her, a famishing. This is the through line, the story that can be told through generations, through taxonomies. This is the thread that holds together the kelson of creation.