Bookmark #830

The orange sun of the winter evening today whispered something in my ear. Its amber hue on the blank canvas of the white wall was a lie. There was no warmth in it. The fog ate it all before it reached us, and then it covered the town like hopelessness covers the vulnerable. I stepped outside onto the empty streets. There were a few cars here and there, but no one willing to be out. A breeze of reluctance blew about as I took step after step to reach the main street. No cabs ready to take me where I wanted to go, I addled over getting coffee at the patio, which, on one look over the wall, looked as drab as the look of an ex-lover and as repulsive as a posh snob’s hospitality. So, I avoided the cup and hailed a ride.

The first step in the door and the sound of claps and laughter echoed louder than any concert I have attended in this life. The cold sun, the opaque fog, the death of all hope vanished instantly. There sat my nephew on the bed, surrounded by everyone, and I went in and lifted him up and put him on my shoulders. To think this would be a long day with such happiness, so approachable, so easy to find, so wildly easy to grab. To think there should even be a complaint in this life now. How easily do we forget the reasons for joy? How easily we forget the good parts until they are in front of us, cackling, stumbling!

There is nothing to say except this: this life has more purpose than ever simply because there is this child, this bumbling ball of joy running around the house, his antics surprising all of us as we lean in and bend forward to shield him from the already cushioned edges. Why should I go on with hope in my heart? Because there is someone watching. What else could it be? Little else matters in the grand scheme of things. The tribulations of the day, the ache of the heart, the parts we could not reliably fix or change or move ahead from remain where they are, but the present echoes with joy; it shines with a light unbeknownst to us, and it runs past us with utmost speed. The cold, dead winter sun can whisper all it wants. Frankly, it can very well find its way to hell.

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