The most precious things we keep hold meaning for only us, and it’s those things we surround ourselves with as time takes all the rest.
Time moves with the same erratic force of those bleating jazz horns like locusts devouring anything in its path.
It is the best day of my life when I get a call from the editor asking me to report on a town meeting and submit a thousand words. Even though it’s just a weekly it’s my first time published, my name in print.
Looking back on your life is like looking out of a plane taking off or touching down. Trying to make out familiar places below, or leave it behind.
We’d sit out there in the late afternoons as dusk came on and the thin windows beaded up with condensation, forming jeweled patterns in the corners. With the glow of the lights and the heater it felt cozy, like looking out from the inside of a gingerbread house.
I yo-yo around the yard occupying myself, for the soul needs a reminder that there’s more beyond itself. And if the soul is elastic, will the stretch marks show when all of this is over?