She
walks along the shoreline, her footprints vulnerable to the rising tide.
Eventually, the footprints are washed away. The tides wash away the evidence if
not the memory. If not the tides, the wind blows and leaves no trace of what
was. The memory fades or is lost completely. A master was once asked if a
certain person was the ‘permanent’ cook. He responded that no one is permanent.
No matter what the legacy, that legacy will melt like an icicle in the
springtime warmth. Even of the few that are remembered, they are mythologized
into something they never were.
