Reading his face is a lot like cooking a curry--I've done it so many times I no longer need the recipe. In this case it was the way his maple cheeks lengthened ever so slightly, questioning, while his bushy black brows knit the two sides of his face shut, already knowing the answer. There was no going back to the ease of bland existence. I didn't answer; there was no need. I turned away and continued pounding the cloves, star anise, turmeric.......and added an extra teaspoon of coriander.
Up high in the air, in the altitudes, it is silent--surprisingly silent. Colors are muted, light seems to refract differently and an overwhelming sense of solitude pervades. But mostly it is silent. You'd think that sounds must travel forever from the surface of the earth to the outer edges of time, but no. Just. Silence.
When I am fortunate enough to view an early-evening sunset with the kind oranges, timid peaches and accommodating pinks brushed across the sky, I fantasize that this is my mum's nod to me across the vastness. She liked going to the park to watch sunsets. She found a bit of comfort, maybe even hope, in learning that stars never die. They become a supernova and cast their remnants across the universe, raw material for something next.
Weeks after her passing I heard her call my name, once, in an urgent but excited tone. But up high in the air, in the altitudes, it is silent. Surprisingly silent.
How far the wind does go,
without someone to know,
an infinite distance,
perchance to be witnessed,
not wanting recognition or show.
The movement less apparent,
moves seed & pollen divergent,
we give no heed,
to the smallest deed,
we little appreciate what's inherent.
But when it topples a building,
or ignites or fans a fire ring,
we see its power,
we pray for shower,
&
*that's* when we do the measuring.
