When you push your stroller past a group of elderly women, you’ll see in the turning gladness of their bodies a glimpse of the children they had been, turning toward the tin music of the ice cream van.
This is the time of year in which I am reminded that all people have goodness, and quite a lot of it. It’s the time of year in which businessmen driving BMWs, coffee-clutching mothers in minivans, school buses and garbage trucks and helmet-clad riders on triathlon bikes all come to a screeching halt, a total stand still, and wait patiently as a meek mother goose and her docile gaggle of eight amble across the road to safety.
I will never tire of the sight; an entire civilization making way for another. Ceasing business as usual to usher in an everyday miracle.
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Aria has been hard at work in her latest humanitarian efforts to save the world. There are no-selfish roots in the quest, let the admission stand, as she’s intent only on gathering enough to feed the world for her just-now-finished play writing.
They can have my written word! she says, before scampering off to the garden, and I’m left thinking of this odd spinning sphere and its twisty ways. |
All else is all else: yardwork and wheelbarrows, painting finger-nails, blackberry chai. Ordering stacked vats of Chinese food and flinging the front door open, calling it a dinner party. Linen dresses coming out of storage, the faint familiarity of must and memories.
Rose dryer sheets for the old dress; rosy thoughts for the old wearer.
