There once was a shepherd who thought to ease the difficulty of his labours. He built elaborate signs, marking the entire path for the sheep to find all they needed. He thought his words would be enough.
once upon a time
there was a child.
the child differed from many other children.
this could have made the child feel sad, and lonely,
if not for growing up
knowing that she always belonged.
How do I know? It is in the touch of her fingers as she formed my spout, the intricate inlay in my belly, the unadulterated attention she gave as she attached my handle.
There was no hope, really. Five years on, she still stuck her finger down her throat and he still “forgot” his anger management classes. They existed together, broken, neither knowing how to heal.
If I can open myself to love, if I can forgive, if I can laugh – if I can do these better at 75 than 74, I have not lived in vain.
Peter drank his tea, poured out his heart, and wept. Domingo refilled the familiar brown cup and passed him a plate of food, lovingly prepared – food for the sorrowful journey.
Sometimes I get so full up taking in all the little beauties around me, she said, I plumb forget all the big things I’d been intending to complain about.