weds. Night 11/17

It's going to rain... They tell me it's going to anyway. I'm thinking of my dear friends, family, and loved ones; Those I'm charged with looking after, The pigs, the sheep, the fields. All of this is (to me) like a library, filled from floor to ceiling. I haven't read every book, nor would I understand them all if I did. And yet, there is a sense of of order that I am not so much charged with understanding; but being in love with.

   The sounds of the house carry unhurriedly towards me from adjacent rooms. The rain on the roof, the laundry room door sliding open, the washer filling with water. Slippered feet shuffle past the door as mom goes bye. These days my father's voice is almost inaudible unless you are sitting right with him, but the muffled conversation between he and mother is a comfort. Every phrase seems a question, tentative, and filled with longing. Mom reaching to dad through the pain, and dad (from very far away) reaching back to my mother (inspite of the pain) his voice filled with concern; as much for her well being as for his own. Here is contained thirty some years of  marriage, every day past leading us here; eternity contained in a moment.