The sky watches the seasons pass by and sometimes it even sighs.
Echoes drift up and swirl away like long lost contrails that hover just below the moon.
Memories skip like rocks on water, bouncing and bopping like a baby learning to dance.
They don’t need to invent a time machine because you have one and can press the date and the time and the exact moment. All you need to do is find that one right song, that one right scent, that one right scene in your head. Then off you go.
Imagination is the opposite of experience. But some things in life, some memories built into the machine of yours, are too big or deep or brilliant or dark to understand when you’re in them. So it’s years later that you remember and you know a little more, for better or worse.
The shimmer of a smile. The grip of a hand. The pitter patter of tiny heels on the hard floor. The laughter in the middle of the night. The silence in the middle of a crowd.
The peace that passes all understanding visits but never stays, not permanently. The cyclones are gone and the sandstorms have simmered down. The madness of one kind is replaced by an insanity of another. Laughter is good and necessary, but laughing on your own is a little too much even for you.
The words have a melody and a rhythm. Just like the passing weeks and the hovering months. The seasons shift and turn and tumble. Yet some things remain the same. The view looks the same no matter where you are and what you’re doing.
Silent toys wait to be played with. Silent roads wait to be ridden over. Silent nights wait for the rising sun. Silent souls wait for the risen Son.
The lists and the facts and the fortunes can wait until tomorrow. The time machine hums and you’re cascading down chords you remember hearing once or twice before. They’re sweet songs. The kind that can’t be summed up in words, though you keep trying, day after day and night after good night.