The work of the day was done, and she watched from behind the white and blue curtains as he walked to the house.
She was once blonde and young, and her skin was warm and with life. Now she is old, shuffles to walk, takes long naps, and her skin is thin, white and cold.
Sometimes you watch. It is late in the day and the moon is early, curtseying in the sky.
He has a splinter in the index finger of his right hand, and he looks to the eyes of his father.
If all good stories have a beginning, then this great story really does not begin nor does it end.
She smelled like skunk, red dirt, old shoes, weathered leather, wild onions, wet leaves, molded straw and the dark side of the barn, where the sun never shines and last week’s rain puddles.
It was routine. His son is tucked beneath a blanket, a quilt and a sheet. Darkness and only the faint glow of a nightlight provides a source for shadows.
He is young and old, all at once. He has outlasted tools, even though his calloused hands are scarred.
The horrific shootings this past Friday are a reminder of how innocent and precious life is.
Some look at photographs, some visit familiar places and some read letters from the past.