Follow the road to where it catches the crisp curve of morning, easing to the right. Turn down the narrow lane, fumbling over gumnuts through the veil of dizzy jasmine. At the brink of the creek, take the widening path, past the old sad willow crying at the foot of the hill of praise.
There you will find a holy breath in time. Where your heart stops beating just long enough to feel alive again.
I see them there. My children. Running up the hill.
The boy comes back to me, running in ever widening circles.
His giggles strike the air like church bells.
This boy. So golden. Is he really mine?
With the lightness of a butterfly, the girl eases her way down to us.
She chases the boy. Who chases the dog.
He calls out to the dog, “Rosie! Come back!” until he starts to worry.
This is when she takes him under her protective wing. The same moment I look up at them whispering in the sun. Comfort and teaching. That’s what older sisters do.
Their lifetime of companionship assured in her firm hold.
The tumbling of toes down the dry grass, past the willow, to the homeward trail. Leaving behind the simple and the sublime.
The snapping of twigs, the scolding of birds, the cadence of tiny footsteps.
The girl and the boy walk ahead, his little hand in hers. The butterfly and the golden hair. Luminous and innocent. Unaware I’ve stopped to inhale it all again. Madly catching the slippery light.
This unscripted passage of time. Imprinted on the walls of my heart chamber.