Little Things

With needle and thread, with pen and paper, with a typewriter’s clacking keys, I attempt to string together the little things — the hiccups and heartbeats — so that no infinitesimal moment escapes me. However, capricious memory slips like lackluster sand through the gaping space between my grasping fingers, and so I languish.

I hold on as best I can; I learn to content myself with letting go.

A single dollar abandoned on the concrete. Just for me? I like to think so. A man in the grocery store complimenting my smile, asking if it is always there. A mother, with her arms laden with piles of books for her children, directs a tender smile at me and wishes me a wonderful day after I simply pause to open a door. An impromptu bouquet of flowers in my hand, clandestinely plucked. An essay — ripe in its utter completeness.

He speaks to me in ways so grandiosely minute; I try to listen.

One thought on “Little Things

  1. Quiet Evidence says:

    I can’t describe how this makes me feel other than “happy.” This makes me feel happy. You have such a wonderful gift, dear friend. It’s such a blessing to read your writing. ❤


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