It’s not like I’m obsessed. I just like watching her. I look at her a lot…but that’s not a crime. It’s not hurting anyone—it’s not like I’m a weirdo; I work; I pay taxes. I buy Girl Scout cookies.
Other than her, I watch people, and honestly, I prefer standing by myself, observing, and listening in on other people’s conversations. They’re so creepy and dishonest. Only saying the things they think the other person wants to hear. They’re fakers.
But I’m sincere and extremely excited as I take a peek. I know, she knows, I’m watching. She flaunts her wet, naked body—she looks straight at me.
If only my goldfish could talk, she’d be perfect.
That’s assuming she’s a female.
“Let go! Mine!” the boy yelled.
“Nooooo—it’s mine!” the girl screamed.
The toddlers competed in a fierce tug-of-war; a stuffed teddy bear, the object of their affection. The boy clung tight to one fuzzy arm, as the older girl just reeled him in, twisting and flopping like a thirty-pound tuna.
The struggle escalated to wrestling on the floor. Suddenly, the boy let out a wailing shriek.
Separating them, the mother saw the red welt on his arm and scolded the girl. “We don’t bite!”
As the spider scurried back to its web full of babies under the sofa, it thought, ‘But we do.’
He was stooped with age. His dark eyes fit a familiar face that wore a lost sheep look.
I caught his glance, we nodded… an old friend perhaps.
“Dinner’s ready,” a nurse says touching my shoulder.
“May invite someone,” I ask.
”Of course, but who?” she wonders.
“Over there by that nurse,” I point.
She looks…then gently squeezes my hand and tells me, “Sweetie, those are our reflections in the mirrored wall.”
My confusion happens a lot they tell me. Memories slip away, mercifully forgotten before they’re missed. But for now, in this singular moment, I take solace, that at least in my heart…I still remember me.
A five-year-old boy, wearing clothes too small—sits on a chair fidgeting, clutching a paper sack containing everything he owns.
With a mighty whoosh, a billowing cape fills the doorway. A superhero enters and a social worker shows him the child’s file…filled with documented betrayals and innocence lost.
Walking over to him he knelt and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. With a steely resolve he promised, “Son, no one will hurt you again. I’m your dad now.” Then he welcomed the boy into his arms with a kiss and a hug.
“Let’s go meet your mom, son—she’s a super woman,” he said with a wink. “She’s baking you some cookies.”
This is how I had always dreamed of finding a real mom and dad.
Turns out it wasn’t just a dream.
Fluffing his feathers as he took off, flakes swirled, soaring upward. His wings, following this well-traveled path, cut through the air with long, steady strokes.
Banking right, he flew due south, racing the gathering storm. Clusters of icy snowflakes slowed his pace.
He scanned the snow-patched ground, and there, in the distance, a familiar view.
Beyond the blue ribbon of river, just over the treetops…he was almost there.
Crouched beneath the trees, a camouflaged man heard a honking. A lone gander approached—tracking it, he sprang up, aimed and fired a ten-shot burst with his SLR.
It was beautiful.
On the eighth day, the Creator danced with joy, delighting in His wondrous handiwork.
Rays of sunlight, wrapped in a cerulean-hued sky, surround and comfort all living things.
Mankind flourishes, pure and innocent; A precocious masterpiece.
Always there, She appears and stares awestruck.
“Look at everything!” He says, running to Her side pointing out to the heavens.
“A glorious first creation,” She says, marveling at the dazzling blue orb, spinning in its celestial home.
“Mankind will need your grace, they’ll love you, yet sometimes break your heart. You’ll understand this someday child — but for now, it’s your bedtime.”
Photo Public Domain
The music is uplifting…yet full of despair. The intertwined melodies of the flute and cello fill the room.
Powerless loved ones surround a dying child and pray — Life and Death dance together unnoticed, each desperately trying to lead.
When the dance ends with the flute’s rising trill, Death stands back as Life steps forward.
Then, with an unseen power, the lost child awakes from the abyss and reaches for loving arms; hopeful and joyous.
Life and Death enter the next room and wonder, how will this dance end — with the flute…or the cello?