stories

My husband saved a mouse today,

cowering behind the pantry broom. The glee that small creature must have felt, carried outside to freedom, escaping my patient calico, waiting with hungry belly.

Outside, this morning, two doves were engaged in the passionate tango of mating season, feather colliding, as three turkey hawks glided through the sky to their nest in the cedar trees.

Outside, this morning, two doves were engaged in the passionate tango of mating season, feather colliding, as three turkey hawks glided through the sky to their nest in the cedar trees.

Kash, our black cat, was trapped in the barn overnight, his yellow eyes pleading with me through the window. And across the field, her voice carried by the wind, my neighbor chided her dog, her chickens clucking beside her, even as my other neighbor, now sits alone in her house, her beloved Ron now gone over a month.

Stories.

I am captivated by them.

The big, the small, the mundane, the tragic. The romantic. (Oh, the romantic!) That first lingering glance, that first hand-hold. Two hearts, synching together for the first time…

But I digress.

My little writer’s heart is mesmerized by each story, pappi of infinite dandelions, microcosms of tiny, miraculous universes. Each individual life, full of hopes and dreams, sadness and joy, passion and despair.

Not one less important, and each one unique.

Each induvial story saying—I am here, I am here. I am here.

And my own, bloodied, beating, bruised and overflowing heart wants to shout—me too.

And.

I see you, I see you, I see you.