Faces

Faces with open mouths peer from walls; teeth bite into the afternoon. Sunlight creeps through the blinds while dust gathers on the tables, the floor, the walls; she waits for something, anything to break the silence in a world that seldom changes.

Migration

I live on the flight path of migrating geese and I don't understand their migration patterns. Here, at the end of summer, they are headed north, not south. Granted, they seem a bit out of control, veering first left then right, then who knows, calling to each other in some personal duck language. But I feel blessed to share in a small part of their journey and imagine for a moment what it would feel like to just take flight.

Hope

Washing the breakfast dishes, she stares out the kitchen window, searches the yard for the dog, finds her gnawing on a bone so large it's hard to picture what it might have been attached to. She's a farm dog, loves barking at the horses and digging for gophers in the flower bed when she's not chasing the small grey rabbit that lives under the metal storage shed. Hummingbirds have arrived, the most ever, darting around the feeder, then fleeing quickly back to the safety of the big oak tree. Life is not perfect, but its good. She's thankful and reminds herself to stay hopeful.

A Recent Thrift Store Gem

Published in 1966, this story captures an era we must never forget. David Champlin is a black man born into poverty in Depression-era New Orleans who makes his way up the ladder of success, only to sacrifice everything to lead his people in the civil rights movement. Sara Kent is the white girl who loves David from the moment she first sees him, and who struggles against his belief that a marriage for them would be wrong in the violent world he has to confront. This book will break your heart but you'll be glad you read it.

Lost

The man across the aisle doesn't speak, doesn't allow his eyes to make contact with fellow travelers, focuses instead on a small silver chain, threading it through his fingers again and again.

No Limits

No limits on time, money, compassion, or dreams. It could happen!

This Time

 
She touches his face, holds his hand, waits for the answering nod. She lights the fire under the kettle, places cups on the table, tea in the pot. Waiting for the whistle, she feels the silence in the room, the tension, fear, exhaustion. She understands she can't be sure but is also sure she's lost him for good this time.

Inevitable

She touches his face, searches for signs of sorrow, then holds his hand and waits for the answering nod. She lights the fire under the kettle, places cups on the table, drops tea leaves in the pot, and waits for the whistle. She feels silence in the room: tension, fear, exhaustion; she understands she can't be sure, but is sure, she's lost him for good.

Picture Perfect

Perfectly alright, or not. Perfectly awful and frightening and intense. Her eyes closing, the floor moving beneath her feet, the morning sun through the kitchen window separating day from night. And all she wants to do is go back to bed and sleep a dreamless sleep.

1-2-3-4-5-6

One way to live is to be part of
two which vanquishes loneliness unless there's
three which is just too many, yet
four is enough to play poker at
five when the sun begins setting and
six will be time for dinner