When new lions take a pride, the cubs disappear. The complex blend of survival is how we forget — Not all at once, but in pieces — because the body is barren? No. Because it remembers how to build again with shaking hands. The lioness doesn’t erase. She revises. She takes the shape of the old cub’s cry and uses it to tune the pitch of the new one. Loss becomes craft. Grief becomes grammar We call it moving on. But the past doesn’t leave. It lingers in the muscle, in the milk, teaching the next version of us how to live without making the same mistake twice. The cub dying doesn’t mean she can’t mother. It means she learned where the teeth are. It means the next child gets the version of her that survived the first ending. This is how we bury what no longer chains us to the past. Not with amnesia, but with authorship. We don’t kill the story. We change the narrator. And she walks forward, teeth and all — rewritten, not redeemed. ~I've tried writing this despite my dislike for science....😅😅 And it was hard work....😮‍💨