There’s something about the inner workings of a clock on the kitchen wall. Perhaps it’s the way the gears click together and roll in unison, tick tock tick as her hands creep around the numbered face.
There’s something about the proud stalks of corn that I pass on our drive through Iowa. Perhaps it’s the way the small seeds were laid into fertile ground and the rain water awoke the spirit of its life, causing me to ask: well, what’s my purpose?
There’s something about the closed book on the counter that I have just begun to read. Perhaps it’s the way the first few pages splashed me in the face like cold water and nudged the knowing inside me to blink open its Rip Van Winkle eyes.
There’s something about the cold white snow outside that has fallen overnight. Perhaps it’s the way my footprints disappear each time she visits and dusts herself across the ground as though to say: create new tracks, please.
There’s something about the bed before slumber that waits in stillness for our sleep. Perhaps it’s the way we folded the sheets together earlier today and forgot to laugh at the small throw pillows that once were pure comedic gold.
There’s something about passing time, the way things grow to die. There’s something about how we discover what we already know, the cold weather of newness. And there’s something about forgetting how to create joy. Perhaps it’s the way life goes.
Perhaps it’s the way life goes.
