gone

He doesn't know that Queen Annes Lace makes my eyes water and my hands itch. He doesn't know that I gripped the stem of that four inch wide flowering crest of white, knowing that he picked it for me and that I loved him for it. He doesn't know that I listened to every word he said, intently missing his small voice and odd observations. He doesn't know that I miss him and miss him most when he is standing next to me, putting his small hand inside mine, reminding me again that my world is bigger than me.

He doesn't know, but I know.

"Guatemala?" He says. "But is that further away than China?" I tell him no, but that I'll be gone much longer than I was in China. "And when you come home, will you come home to our house?"

I don't know. I wish, but I don't know. Somehow it is easier to see a year in advance when you are eight and life is a series of sledding months, swimming months, first day of school days and last day of school days. It is easier to know how much taller you will be in a year judging by the marks on the wall that have grown as steadily as you have. It is easier to know that Christmas will always fall on December 25th and that you will wake to the smell of baked oatmeal and sausage every year. It is easier to love and be loved in your own right, and not because you've made it somehow in the realm of adulthood. It is easier to suppose that everything will always be the same and nothing will ever change. It is easier to be eight than it is to be now.

flesh

It was a tragic death, full of heroic efforts at a mediocre survival and valiant falls off the steed of denial. It was a death of not just the individual, but of the future, the dreams, the hopes which so many had set. Death, in all its vain glory and hopes dashed, was in that single moment of time the only real thing to be had. Its very existence now defined by non-existence and proved by the lack of what had previously been a real and thriving fester. It was worse than the death of humanity. It lasted longer than the death of a loving heart and yet the life which threatened to stir in it only brings death of a different kind.

It's known as the death of self. Or self-denial, if you will. And it hurts every single time.

comrades

Friends by definition; comrades by choice. Fighting a winning battle [even when it sometimes looks lost] and on the winning side [because that matters too]. I chose you. You chose me. We never really chose each other, random neurons somehow collided and found kindred groupings, or something. It happened. One day, not too long ago, it happened.

Now to the crux of the matter: Since we are two [or nine or seven] somehow we have to proceed. Somehow we have to grow and this can't be a one sided conversion. It's you and me. It's her and him. It's us together or not at all. Together, because it works better that way. Not at all, because than we're no longer friends by definition or comrades by choice. We just knew each other once.

But not anymore.

foolish

Oh no. I'm not so foolish as that. I know you think I am. I know you think you know it all, all the dregs and all the infidelities I commit with my character. You know all the inhibitions and wanderings of my menial mind. You think that you have the inside scoop, and why shouldn't you? After all, you've read this for a year now. You stumbled across this book of my life and in the valley of decision, in that single moment of time, you chose to climb this hill with me. Of course you've never told me and of course you'd never admit to peeking over my shoulder [and that's fine, I'd rather you remain anonymous. All the good stories never end in climax.], but your presence has remained and it's remained strong.

I know you. I know you more than you think you know me. I know that you'd rather read this and suppose [creating more stories than even I am wont to make up] about me. I know that. And that's fine. I'd rather never know your name. Never need to imagine your face. I'd rather not feel the unexpected tap on my shoulder asking if I am who I say I am. I'm not, to let you know and to save you time.

But someday I want to know you back. Someday I want to catch you unawares. Around the corner of surprise.

Today it's like reading a book you've written for the first time. A Choose Your Own Adventure sort. The story is being written and it will go any direction I want.

I know a whole slew of talented people. What a lot of ingenuity they represent.

I wish sometimes you could be present where I am. So you could see what I see and hear what I hear. I think, I really do, that you would become at least half as biased as I tend to be about the people who surround my walk. I wish you could hear the music made by a little boy at the dinner table humming Schumann. I wish you could browse through the photos taken by the person who knows me deepest. I wish you could hear the reasoning done around a Sergis Margarita Pizza. I wish you understood a fraction of the giftings in her smallest finger and I wish that you could sit on my front porch and be blessed by the wind rushing through the corn. Content to not be entertained by anything other than the sound of the Spirit.

It's a beautiful thing.

I am relearning again. I've stopped learning and am strictly on the relearning. Held back in second grade because I still can't sight read. That's fine. Someday I'll be the best reader Mrs. Moyer ever had. Someday, when all my bookit lists have been signed and the Ramona books read and reread, when The Mouse and The Motorcycle has been dog eared and tear stained, when I've come to view Laura Ingalls [pre-Wilder] as my best friend and the bookmark as my second-best-friend, then I can go into third.

Someday. When I've mastered the art of faith and the ear of understanding, when I've heard the voice of the Lord and it says, ""okay, lets move on. . . "", when I've started feeling again and when I've stopping crying, then I can move onto learning. But lets relearn for a while. Okay?

faith

s a t i s f i e d s t u m b l i n g


It's easy to fall.
Pants are a little too big, just too big.
A little stooped, walks a little slow.

Head down, step determined.
Puts his hand through his hair.

Barely there.

Bag is slung
over one side.
Brown.
[holds books?]
Makes me laugh at cynical reply .
Should I?
I shouldn't.

Drink your tea,
it's getting cold.

Put out that grin,
it's getting old.

He smiles, he dips his chin
[as if that peek
is too much to see].
It is.
Stomach flips, advert my eyes.
Don't look.

Falling is never easy.