I have inherited a life like grass, plucked for dandelion chain necklaces and crushed by tennis shoes. A lifespan of mist, its beads suspended in space for two breaths before vanishing. I’m told the place to be is not in the center of the dance floor, but the funeral home; that sorrow yields a wildly rich harvest that could never be produced by a year of sunshine. As a result of life’s fast fade, the wise are found dwelling on rocks sturdier than flesh and dreaming of invisible treasures, while the foolish build barns on sand and stuff them like Thanksgiving birds. At the end of their days, the wise…