If there was a time when I wasn't fascinated with labyrinths I do not remember it. Perhaps it began in the flimsy metal shelves of the library at my elementary school when I read all the Greek myths I could reach, or the subtle lines traced through the lives of men in the tales of Borges, or in the mazes of the children's menu at Smitty's that I traced in crayon while I waited for my breakfast of eggs. toast, and bacon carefully laid out to look like a kitty cat.

The art of the labyrinth was in the way that while moving forward, moving inward, the traveler must continue to pass very close to the path he or she had previously traversed, the obstacles they had overcome.

This was not the cathartic path of letting go. This was the constant reminder of where you've been and who you are becoming. Yes, there is a boon at the center but each step now determines what that boon will be.

Now I lie on the floor with my dogs. I scratch their backs with my toes and their tails wag sleepily. I will read a bit and then go to sleep myself. When my eyes close I can almost see the walls of my own labyrinth and in my dreams I hear the echoes of footsteps and laughter from that me not so very long ago, that self I was and still am now, just more so and more so with every fall of my foot.