Monday, March 26, 2012


He comes home with a story. It is the tallest of tales weaved by an old man. There are cows and aliens and a peculiar question at a sale. The details are fantastic, the telling what makes it seem true. Slater is enthralled, in love and can't help but want more information. His enthusiasm feeds a need I now have for distraction. We look and look and can't find anything to substantiate what this man says can be. Still, we choose to believe.

She tells me two fables as I drive the car. It was a decade of loss of which a lifetime could result. It wasn't all their responsibility, she was willing to take some blame. It's just that once all is said and done I ask about her faith. You'd think she would have more sense but something seems to linger. We both laugh so we won't cry as she has to admit she still chooses to believe.

Three forty seven, still no word. Expectations were greater twenty-four hours ago. The rise and fall of that next step. A casual exchange was all it took. No promises were made, only the hope of just a little more. Possibly not and probably so. It's just that at times for a dreamer a maybe sentence turns into a paragraph then a page. A small sliver of light in a concrete wall can become a sun to one who has spent time within. It may soon begin to look like a door. I feel it has to be so still I choose to believe.

Today I am grateful for faith.

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