It is that magic time of year when the supernatural pathway of our miraculous planet seems to change directions. The complexity of what causes this is actually quite simple, but it results in a magical day that has been celebrated by hundreds of civilizations for thousands of years.

I have a fond memory of an Irish-style band and lots of friendly faces that helped us celebrate this pious moment in time, just one year ago.  I had dreams of trying to repeat this joyous moment, but all I can find is a scorched pile of empty memories that linger in the low evening light.

The ghosts of some old friends are sitting on one of the partially melted steel beams, and pretending to share a toast. The friendly servers are searching the broken tavern for a barrel of ale, and the joyous band has found a stage on a large pile of broken dreams.

The happy crowd has somehow managed to find room to dance amongst the rubble, and everyone toasts the magical moment. Years of past experiences have convinced us that the sun will soon return its warmth, and we can also hope that our favorite tavern will rise once again from the ruins, and the ghosts will live again.

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