The seasons of walking through life...incomplete thoughts. Memories randomly stepping forward. A work in progress.
The seasons go by.
Everyone should experience the heart that is lit with that little spark. It is the catching of our eyes, the moment where my soul makes landfall with yours. It is the glory of giddiness in the desire to be close.
If only these sparks would hypnotize us forever and never let go. It is innocence, a hopeful pursuit of the total abandonment of you and me.
Please stay, don’t go. Don’t succumb to the tragedy that haunts our days.
We should all know the wonderment of the spark.
The seasons go by.
When the tears fall, they show the inner wounds that have overcome the walls of our guarded hearts.
Time flows with fury as do our dreams and yearning for tender mercies. I am tired.
Our days are rapidly running to our finish lines. Simple moments of love and beauty wish that we would be captivated again. This is worth it, this is wonderful, hang on.
The scars that are left leave us so frail. Why is it we can be so unkind? A chill of indifference takes hold. Oh, how I long to sit and see into your heart, and for you to see mine.
The calluses are hard and thickened by the unending trials, but love does exist; it is down there so deep. I want to find you; do you want to find me?
The season goes by, sometimes in minutes.
Standing at the register, I am paying for my groceries. A man walks back into Miller's stands and waits.
He stands there, almost wondering if he will be noticed.
He explains that he carried the red basket along with his bags to his car.
We look at him and smile. A quiet moment in hopes of a conversation.
How many have been annoyed because of his presence? Maybe, he talks too much?
We slowly walk out the open door.
"Where are you from again?" He asks. "Barnesville, I say," but my husband and I grew up not far from Rollag.
"How is it these days?" he asks. I reply, "We haven't been there since Gary's parents died."
He reflects on family. Everyone he knows is dying off.
"It must be lonely", I say to him.
"Yes, yes, it is."
We both walked away to our cars and drove away.
How often do we go about our days without noticing each other?
Is there a moment to spare?
Being invisible is lonely; we want to be seen.
Especially to those nearing the end of their journeys.
