It cannot be reclaimed; the timeline, on a sloping line, gathers momentum.  On reflection, I do best – what could have, should have been.  The roads I’ve traveled or traveled away from.  Once without boundaries, easily crossed and turning pages of this daily journal.  I could change direction.  It was easy.  Not so easy anymore.  The load is not light, the bones are growing weary.  The muscle aches from memory.  Too late now, to throw one’s head back and think about the wavering course.  I am not Lot’s Wife.  Will not be Lot’s Wife: less my heart turn to stone.  We shall never truly know, shall we?