By Elaine Knudtson
Fragile, quivering fears and hope that dares not sprout lest it be destroyed by the impending storm that never comes in this desert of my life.
But you join me in silent reverie each day, repeating the patterns that we expect to last for an eternity.
These are the good old days we will long for when one of us is gone.
It won’t be the Garden of Eden of summer with the piccolo sound of the birds, or the swishing of the creek against the flood-tossed rocks on our morning walks.
It won’t be the breath of the breeze warmed by the sunrise, or the dew heavy on the silver willows and grasses by the edge of the well worn path.
It won’t be the excitement of coming events–vacations, new babies, renovations, reunions, new, new, new anything to take my mind away from the hope I dare not grasp for fear that it will be washed away.
No, what I will long for is your warmth as we lie together like scared children in each other’s arms, fearing the monsters that have existed since we could imagine.
I will long for your prayers–pious or sincere: rants, whispers, silent sights.
I will long to be carried on the wave of faith that transcends time to the shores where hope is certain and faith is sight.
You take me there, as we sit drinking coffee on another good old, boring day that lights up my life.
July 28, 2018 – Our 39th Anniversary