Soft as
a feather; it remains a touch I will feel and a picture painted in my mind for
all time. It was love; it was trust; it was friendship; it was hope; it was the
tiny hand of a beautiful baby placed inside mine. Tiny little fingers with baby
creases and dimples to match lay upon my own fingers, they with a slightly more
mature feel and stature, strong enough to hold hers, with a promise to support
her forever, whatever music her tiny fingers chose to play. She
played, in fact conducted, a many stringed orchestra with melodies fit for ears
of the angels; sometimes, because I heard only the noise, I missed the
melodious sounds we could have danced to. It seems I broke the promise I made
to that tiny, alluring, faithful little hand whose trust was placed with me.
Soft still; I feel the trusting little hand inside mine as we cross
the street together. Still playing those melodious sounds; still sometimes missing
them because I chose to hear only the noise; it is my greatest wish to cross
the street again……….together.
That time too has passed.
Years went quickly by as life tried to steal the warmth from my soul;
that beautiful little hand was there to replace it, now conducting a symphony
for the songs of the angels. Again and unaware, I sometimes missed the beauty
of the sounds, instead hearing only the noise.
If I could only hear the sounds again but that time also has passed.
That tiny little hand, although it grew with the years, can no longer
lie upon mine; can no longer make beautiful music I can listen to (now that I
have learned to hear it instead of only the noise); no longer depends on me for
support. If only I could feel its warmth inside mine.
It now sings with the angels; its time has passed.
Time, with me, waits to hear the melodies and feel the softness once
again of that little hand.
No comments:
Post a Comment