Category: Short Stories (Page 13 of 46)

“Stuck in the muck without a fuck as I have no more to give.”

We all reach that moment when we simply just need to stop.

You know, smell the flowers. Soak our feet in a mountain stream. Listen to the birds singing while we absorb the vibration of a rushing river surrounding us. Drown in beauty. Breathe.

Sometimes being stuck in the much reminds us of how much we wish to roam, to run up rocky hills and have to catch our breath at the top.

I work to slow down moments when my daughter is my little girl again, telling me stories with that grown-up smile still alive with a young girl’s mind, reminding me of the stories she would share as a toddler learning her way in the world. I want my son to always look up to me as the best hero a comic book never had. I want my oldest to know that though she may be grown, she will always be my little girl, my first love.

I hate getting older only because I feel so much slipping through my fingers. Diapers are no more. “Daddy” has become “Dad”. Stubby legs blessed with baby fat have become the strong legs of adolescence. Phone calls are less frequent. Memories that seem like yesterday only serve to remind me that my time is fleeting.

I’m blessed for each day, but I’ve missed so much in my blindness. I can see now in my aged wisdom, but sometimes that sight shows me how much I’ve lost. No more sloppy kisses on the cheek or piggy-back rides. Sometimes I just beg for one more piggy-back ride…just one more of something I can hold on to for the rest of my days. Remind me of your youth so that I, in turn, can be reminded of my own.

The awakened soul is patiently impatient, knowing full well that it has but a limited time to experience this life even as it knows it is eternal. My time here as me is limited, I want all I can get out of this time. I have no desire for the games I once played when I thought I had time, when I was invincible, when I was going to live forever. I only desire to squeeze every drop of juice from the fruit that is this life. I want so much and realize that the most precious commodity I have left is time.

So I don’t want to know about what we’re going to do someday. I want to step in the clear, cold streams now. I want to hold those moments so precious that nothing can take them from me. I don’t want to be buried with gold, or money, or treasure of any kind save the memories we’ve created in the spaces that we’ve shared. Nothing else matters. Nothing.

I have no more fucks to give. But I have something even better. A memory. A kiss. A hug. A piece of me that I can’t take with me left next to a piece of you that will always remain. No more excuses on why we aren’t living this life. No more time wasted on staying stuck in this muck. Unstick, and leave that footprint behind for someone else to see so that they may, if they choose, see that there is a way free. Maybe your footprints will show them the path to the cliff you’ve dove off of, and maybe if they listen hard enough they’ll hear your shriek of joy as you fall into the unknown.

Running. Not my favorite thing, yet something I’ve found is necessary to my overall well-being.

I’m not built like a runner. At 6′ and 220 pounds, I am built to run through things, not to things. Add to that the fact that running bores the crap out of me and it soon becomes evident that nothing about the activity excites me.

Yet, I’ve found a way to run that makes me feel wonderful. I’ve given up the asphalt and the well-groomed tracks for the wild ways of the trail. There is something about running on a still-wild path that is littered with rocks, boulders, and the whims of nature that brings a smile to my face. When faced with a steep incline I can feel a growl inside me that pushes me upward. It’s all so very…

Primal.

Yes, that’s the word. Primal. It feels as if a voice inside me is screaming for joy as I run through the wild woods of a mountain. Perhaps there is some memory of my warrior self surviving in tougher times when survival was only guaranteed by strength, intelligence and a bit of good fortune.  Maybe I have some residual energy of a primitive man who was both self-reliant and dependent on his tribe to survive. Whatever it may be, it certainly speaks to me in the joy and passion I feel when I am on a trail, fully exposed to both the elements and the whims of nature, again wholly dependent on my strength, intelligence, and good fortune for survival.

I have learned a bit about what is missing from my American lifestyle as it relates to my primal voice. I prefer a small tribe versus a large society, likely because the society I live in has become distorted by the illusions it has created. I prefer a tougher road to survival, but believe what has been missing has been my ability to depend on those in my small circle, to share both the triumphs and burdens of living in this place. Just like my ancestors did before history was created. Before men decided to write things down.

I feel so comfortable in the primal space I’ve discovered. That doesn’t mean that I want to hunt elk with a spear or wear buffalo skins in the cold of winter (although, to be honest, both appeal to me highly). What it means is that I enjoy those moments of self-reliance coupled with a burgeoning need for that small circle of humans I’ll call my tribe. Each member of that tribe brings something to the spaces we share, and if we each use the gifts we are, the tribe becomes strong, determined and free. None of us have to give up our individualism, or our strengths, to be part of the tribe. We just depend on each other to make life that much better, safer, and sustainable.

I’ve been reading a lot on the Paleo Diet as an excellent way to fuel our bodies. What I don’t hear much about is how that same mentality can be used to provide for a happier life. How can we simplify, each to our own limit, to rid ourselves of the need for things unnecessary to our survival? If the Paleo Diet is meant to simplify our eating to things that fuel our bodies in a healthy manner, cannot a lifestyle reminiscent of that era fuel our happiness also in a healthy manner?

Again, I’m not talking about using spears and loincloths. I’m talking about ridding ourselves of unnecessary burdens (not running on the road) and finding a lifestyle that promotes happiness through simplicity, and truth through a combination of self-reliance and a small, dependable tribe (primal running)?

Some of us are strong hunters, but not so strong gatherers. Some of us are great gatherers, but not very good at hunting. A tribe caters to both the strengths and weaknesses of the individual, whether that tribe consists of two or hundreds.

I plan to do more pondering of this Paleo lifestyle as a complete lifestyle, one that supplies my body with the mental, physical and spiritual fuel it needs to live this life to the fullest.

We are all familiar with the voices in our heads. The constant ringing and pinging of something alien that has become so familiar as to appear indigenous; a constant companion reminding us of what we should do and who we should be while distracting us enough to have us forget who we really are.

The voice sounds so much like our own, yet it never was. If we listened hard enough we’d hear our parents, our partners, our community all suddenly mimicking the way we sound. The tone and inflection of the voice morphed more to our liking, yet at its source remains nothing like our own. We are often like Charlie McCarthy settling down on the lap of our subjugator, suckling on the teat of mothers long gone and of judges who have no vested interest in our happiness save we are miserable like them. We have long become blocks of wood who have surrendered their souls to a chisel, puppets lost to the ventriloquist, children lost to the insanity begotten to their parents and who never fully grow up.

We have bequeathed our courage to the misery of a society gone mad in material pools of expectation and assumption.  We willfully place our wounded wrists in iron shackles and parlay our freedom on a rustic shack we willingly call our home.  We find security in the walls that keep us from the essence of who we are in the everything that is, believing that if we sit still in the palaces we have built that the Universe will come to us instead of us going to it.  As long as the iron binds us to the walls we call home we believe we are free, secure, and alive. The real living is done as we tear ourselves free of it all, and lose ourselves in the fear of something different. The bold live out there, warriors as they are.

Who shall come to me in true love, forgetting all they’ve loved and lost to a new space as open as the Universe itself? To my self I say, forget the fragrance of past flowers and bask in the newness of the Spring. See the buds blooming anew, and be brave enough to bend at the knee to enjoy their sweet smell. Get muddy and wet and wounded and bruised, for there has been no joy in the secure shelters on which you’ve rested. Forget this place too so that you may, in the truest form of who you are, love the seasons equally for the unique gifts they offer. There is great beauty in the ice, in the snow, in the colors of dozing trees, and in the running streams of warming climes. Do not search for flowers in the ice, or snowflakes in the hot Sun. Enjoy what is there, and know this place for what it offers you now, regardless of what the voices say.

A vow I make to the voices shouting at me from nowhere in particular.

I will not succumb to you. I know well the voice that is mine, and it sounds nothing like you. It comforts me even when you lash me to your iron bars. It guides me even when you blind me with tears not my own. It demands of me strength in the face of your weakness and seeks the best of me when you attempt to coax me to a lesser idea. You may wallow in your shallow grave, but I shall rise above your pit to heights unimagined in the glory of simplicity, truth, and wonderment. This is the truest stoicism, the truest mark of a warrior.

A challenge I issue to the warrior within.

Do not hasten your own suffering by catering to the whims of those voices. Do not chasten yourself in the melancholy of voices others may have spilling out of their innards. Stand firm and tall with the sword of your heart beside you, and wield what is necessary for your own protection. Feel all that you know to be true surge through your Being, and let it own your actions without regard to the insanity around you. Your heart will be your sword, and your spirit shall be the sword that defends your happiness with all its might. Let others wield the blades of their displeasure as their bronze falls bent and misshapen against the steel of your design.

Whistle as the sirens may, heed only the call of the lover who comes to you from a place of Paradise and who seeks from you nothing but your sword and your shield. Stand by ready and the willing, knowing what love has brought you no voices can take away. Walk with the wind at your back, knowing the Sun’s warmth as she wipes the beads of blood and sweat from your brow. Know her not in the cravings of the flesh but in the song your heart sings in her presence. Feel all that she is as her light thaws the iced formed in the dark corners of your mind, and know that work that you have done was to give her a place of comfortable discomfort. She will rise to your occasion and you, in turn, will stand ready to receive her without pause. She will take you in without restraint, and you will then surround her with the shroud of a lover’s making. Eternally.

Yesterday, my daughter graduated 8th grade. I, once again, have a teenager heading into high school. Yesterday, my son left elementary school forever. I no longer have a child in elementary school, and I never will again.

Once again, there is change all around. The battle between Winter and Summer seems over, with Summer finally achieving both a moral and final victory. The Sun crests beautifully in the morning sky, and this traveler marvels at the change. It wasn’t just a few days ago that it was cold and rainy as winter grasped helplessly onto anything it could find. Today, the cold, blowing winds seem to be fading to memory as the snows give way to blooming promises of life. My feet splash on the muddy puddles left by the tears of winter as its time passes, and of summer as it embraces its hopeful moment again.

I marvel at my daughter’s smile. I’ve been down this road before with her sister, but all that seems to mean is that I’m better prepared for the tears I will be leaving, both as time passes and life embraces its hopeful moment again. She’s growing to be such a strong, beautiful young woman, full of self-confidence and that fire that was first exposed as she fought for life in her first moments. Her sister may have saved my life, and this one enriched it. I watched that little being fight with a stubbornness that would always define her; a stubbornness that I have grown to both admire and love even when it challenges me to my core.

Her brother is something else. He is a little version of me in nearly every way. He thinks. He entertains. He is sensitive and caring, loving and strong. He has his passions and approaches them with a fervor. Best of all, he is not afraid to tell his Dad how much he loves me. Often.

I watched my youngest girl through my own teary eyes as she was announced and received her certificate. Her smile lit up the room and reduced her Dad to a puddle of thoughts and emotion. Though I hid them well, a tear did slide down my cheek. It seemed to carry with it all of the memories I had of her, 14 years of moments that ran down my skin and left for the ether. Another offering to the great puddle…

I watched my boy as he sat with his friends and did his thing. I had a smile tattooed on my face, and every once in a while he’d look back and smile too. His mom and I have been divorced for quite some time and while I’m not sure we did much right while we were together (that’s a bit of an overstatement, I’ll admit), I do know we did two things perfectly. He teacher had put together a video, and there was my boy being him explaining what he loved about 5th grade, and what he was looking forward to in middle school.

“I love the Eagles,” said one of his friends just moments before it all started. “My mom is from Virginia, so she wants me to root for the Redskins, but I love the Eagles.”

“Well, your secret is safe with me. I know it’s hard to be a Redskins fan right now. I wouldn’t want to be one.” We both laughed, and I looked at Mike as his face beamed. He and I had watched our Eagles win their first Superbowl together. I had to wait 50 years for that to happen, he only had to wait for 11. He watched is Dad cry tears of joy, both in the victory and in the fact I’d lived long enough to share it with my buddy. Another offering to the great puddle…

That morning, I had told his sister to not just let these moments slip through her fingers. Cherish them, bathe in them, and even though you shouldn’t hold on too long, enjoy them with attention as they happen. Typical of my girl, she gave me an eye roll and a smile that seemed to suggest she both got it and wanted no part of it. For now, anyway.

My boy had a different response as we walked to my car after the ceremony. “Dad, I’m going to sound all philosophical here. You know, deep. I don’t walk backward. I walk forward.”

“But don’t forget to pay attention to where your feet are at the moment. You aren’t up there (I pointed forward), and you aren’t back there (pointing backward). You are right here (pointing to the ground under us).”

“Touche, papa. We are both philosophers, huh?”

“That we are, my boy.” We hugged, and then headed toward the car. We surely splashed in some very figurative puddles along the way. That’s how we roll.

“Wanna go hiking with me this weekend?” I asked my boy, already knowing the answer.

“Um, no Dad. I hate hiking. You actually have to walk a lot.”

There you had it. Order had been restored.

My youngest daughter heads to Washington DC in a few days for a class trip. This will be the first trip she’ll without either one of her parents with her. Yes, her Dad is nervous. She’ll be 1600 miles away from me, and I won’t be there to make sure she’s ok. Her sister is older (10 years) and travels a lot. My youngest girl is different.

Ok, she’s not different. She’s the last girl I have to protect. She’s my baby girl, my middle child, one of the last strings I have to my youth. In what seems like a sweater tattered with only two threads remaining, my youth is fading fast, ready for the landfill, forever to be forgotten. I, like winter, am grasping at whatever I can to hold onto those moments when my body seemed more tolerant of my efforts, and my days seemed longer as I prayed for the years to pass.

Soon, she’ll be a woman and have another man to protect her. “Fuck him,” I say to myself. I know I’m being silly, but she is my girl. The age-old adage of a father having to let go of his treasure, passing away like the seasons being a forgotten winter in the face of a newfound spring. The puddles grow, and will soon be a legacy that will one day dry under a summer sun.

I so wish my kids would slow things down. I know they won’t, but I beg them too. If not for themselves, then for me. I just don’t want this time to pass so quickly. “Enjoy your youth,” I say to them. What I really mean is “let me enjoy your youth. Mine is gone, but yours is just beginning. Don’t pray it away. Play in the puddles with all you have.”

And the young, they can lose hope ’cause they can’t see beyond today,
The wisdom that the old can’t give away ~Pearl Jam, Love Boat Captain

I so enjoy my humanness. The twisting plots and foils of living this life excite me to no end. So through my tears and my smiles, my stumbles and my strength I enjoy it all. I love sharing my thoughts with my kids, even if I know I’m often speaking to a mostly empty auditorium not quite ready to hear the words. They will be one day, and if I’m not around to offer them these things perhaps the memories will survive. Perhaps they’ll take with them a little bit of water on their feet and a little bit of mud on their legs as the Winter turns to Summer and they make resounding puddles of their own. Perhaps they’ll see a little of me in the reflections.

I often sit in envy of the Stoics who were men of wealth and power who sought those things in a different form. It proves to me that human wealth is not enough, and human power does not wield that greatness of men. Instead, we can all find our true wealth and power in simplicity, in austerity, and in the common desire to be both happy and healthy in whatever life we are given.

Do I find my joy in the best schools when I work my life away to provide them? Do I find my happiness in the empty spaces left unfilled? Do I find wealth in the gold and ornate desires of my flesh?

The truth is, few things make me happier than being on a rocky trail somewhere, hearing the birds sing and the water rush over the fortunate stones become smooth in the current. I find few greater joys than dressing in my old shorts and shirts, putting on the muddy shoes worn well on the earth, the Sun baking down on my bronzed skin. Save the moments with my children, there is nothing like a sunrise to brighten my day, nothing like the excitement of reaching some marvelous destination created by the Higher Power of natural design.

What greater wealth would I find than feeling the splash of a waterfall on my warm flesh? None could I think of, other than the health that allows me to get there. What greater power would I have than that I wield over my tired body as the doubt creeps in, the rocks beneath me telling me stories of my demise? None could I think of, other than the silent glory of sitting in a place I would not be had I just listened to those stories.

Perhaps it is time to rewrite the Stoic prose to fit the plight of modernism, to work to end the flourishing seeds of the pathetic permission we give ourselves to be lesser than who we are. Perhaps we need to revisit the strength inside us all and rewrite the truth that suggests we are to be afraid, and only the greatest among us are to meet the mighty challenge. Who planted those seeds of doubt within us, and who are we to accept such mediocrity?

I refuse that poison. I refute the claim that I am lesser than a god. I challenge you to prove me wrong and, in turn, find the power beyond comprehension.

We can all rewrite our own story. First, we must realize that we are its author. We are holding the pen, deciding which character we are to be, and which pretense we shall live under. Cede that power if you choose, or grab it like a mighty sword and swing it for all it’s worth. Your choice. My choice. It belongs to no one else.

Questions posed by The Voice during my run this morning.

Who is this Stoic Man and what is his purpose?

My thoughts invariably shift to the child I once was, alone in a dark room sobbing in the life offered him. Nursing his bruises, both of the flesh and beyond it, wishing things were different. Oh, sweet boy, do not lose hope, salvation is coming for you!

I’ve visited that boy many times in my reflections. I remind him that he is loved, that he is strong. I try to comfort him in the moments when all seemed lost, and death portrayed itself as the only answer. The boy envied his brother who had died near birth. The man was grateful to know of his existence. The boy longed for the encouraging words of his late grandfather. The man needed none of it. The boy sought redemption in the absence of such pain. The man found salvation in that very darkness.

I often wonder if, at some level, that boy felt me in the space next to him. I wonder if he endured simply to meet the man who held his hand through the ether. Such wonderment has to be, for me, a mystery of belief.

My mind then drifts to the younger me, trying hard to find his way. Anger was his friend, for no one could hurt him in the red waters of rage. “I need nothing from you,” he’d say to those who offered their hearts, “I want none of you” would be his mantra to souls who would invite him in. Tears would flow from his eyes in the loneliness he sought, and pain would be his companion as he often hurt the very ones who loved him. He could not believe in them, for he was taught that trust was what others could enjoy. His was to be a solitary path.

The stoic man honors the younger self and cherishes the lessons he would learn. “You’ve walked your way, and look at the steel such fire has created,” says The Voice. My soul kisses the memory of youth on the cheek and, as always, forgives him for his blindness.

The weight of past pain has long since departed, and my footsteps are lighter now than ever before. I think of them, and wonder what gifts I had given them in my sightlessness. I can only hope some beauty remained after all the dust had settled, and fondness of the speck of light that always existed within me somehow is remembered more than that darkness that gave it breadth. I hope the softness was remembered despite the hardness, and that some saw the promise of what could be more than the perception of what was.

The losses, the pain, the misdeeds, each showed a way to my own strength. Weakness somehow will always provide a path to power, and pain will always offer a way to fulfillment. It’s why I no longer vilify myself for any of it. It’s all taking me to somewhere I need to go.

The Stoic Man honors the weakness that once defined him and the light that drove him forward. He is, after all, the sum of all he’s ever known. His purpose remains to add to the experience and do so with an intention born not of hype or pretense, but of truth and circumstance. He walks the path laid before him and, where none exists, makes one. It is life he loves, and it is living where he finds his purpose.

He could have quit long ago. His last breath could have been a lifetime ago. He decided to live. His way, no longer a slave to the methods of others.

The run over, I sit on a bench by the lake I’ve grown to love. I wipe the mud from my legs and stretch out my aging hips that protest the activity. “You didn’t say a word during the run,” I say with a laugh to my now screaming muscles. “Now I can’t shut you up.” I’ve learned to laugh as soon as I can about fear, pain, suffering, whatever. The laughs come in their own time, but come they do. My body craves the joy almost as much as it craves breath, and my mind seems well-adjusted to the idea that I simply want to live. Not be alive, but LIVE.

One day, this dream will all be over and I’ll return to the vast Sea I’ve come to know. I’ll be bringing with me a life lived, fulfilling the purpose my spirit has to experience. Perhaps I will have met some who find my purpose has brightened up their lives a little, or a lot. Perhaps I’ll discover those who wish to live as well. Perhaps our minds will stop long enough for us to really get to know one another.

Or not. Whichever. We’ll be fine either way.

The Sun has never said to the Earth, ‘You owe me.’ Look at what happens with a love like that. It lights the whole sky. ~Hafiz.

There are times when she is beautiful.

When she drops her veils and you can hear the strength and weakness in her voice, she is beautiful.

When she loses her inhibitions and her strength pours out all over her, she is beautiful.

When she smiles as the skies rain tears of misery, she is beautiful.

When the Sun glimmers off the lonely trail of her tears, she is beautiful.

When the sweat pours from her brow as she tills the fields that sustain her, she is beautiful.

When the thought of her touch punches through the smoke-filled visions of my mind, she is beautiful.

When she thinks she is at her worst; when her hair is not kept, when her clothing is at its most casual, she is beautiful.

When she lets you see her as no one else does, she is beautiful.

There are no rules nor standards to her beauty. Her eyes light up the narrow pathways you take to get to her. Her smile drives you forward when the challenge seems too great. Her tones and inflections lift you up without you even asking, and her stoic grace brings your courage in the moments you fear the most.

It seems there are no times when she is not beautiful. What a lucky man is he she loves.

“I wish that you had faith,” I whisper to no one in particular.

Through those winding tales we weave as our own, we lose something. We lose the faith we were born with, that very gift given us at the moment of our conception. We learn to distrust the process of living. We learn to grasp, and in that grasping what we want we often let the very essence of our experience slip through our fingers. So forgetful are we of the promise of our creation that we let life slip away. Gone, forever, is the promise of our birth.

“I wish that you would trust,” I say to no one in particular.

I know well the scars caused as we walk helplessly around, cutting ourselves on the shards of broken hearts strewn haphazardly on the ground. We blame others for our wounds even as our feet fall to the will of our desire, even knowing that the failure to clean up the mess we’ve left is ours and ours alone. Others have given us the hammer, but it is we who strike the blows. Others have given us the spade, but we dig the grave with our own hands. “Trust,” I say. “Please trust. You have never been led astray. You’ve chosen to be lost. You can choose to be found.”

Lost diamonds hold no value to the lapidary, a wadi no import to a man dying of thirst. Be brave, and be satisfied in the precious moments that quench your desire. Seek them, and do not stop until you reach them. Trust, for the process of your humanity was created for you to enjoy.

“I wish that you would love,” I say to no one in particular.

Somewhere in the expansive abyss in which we exist, we fear. We fear the dark, we fear the light. We fear the mountain, we fear the valley. We fear aloneness, and we fear togetherness. Fear turns the dream of life into the desperate nightmare of existence. We seek the shackles we use to bind us to imprisonment while giving thanks for the length of chain we call our freedom.

So says my mind to the beast that lives within, “bind me to my fear, and let it anchor me to the spaces I call my home.”

So says my heart to the demons that feed the beast within, “Surrender as I slay you with each beat, as I tell a story written long before your birth.”

So says my spirit to the dark corners where both lay, “Paint the pathways in black and watch the white specks of the canvas that is love seep through. Know then that you exist at my will, and shall be summoned to bathe the newborn babes of my desire in the pools that I so choose.”

In the echo that replies, I see I am speaking to no one in particular. Phantoms as they are, the demons are but mist even as I choke the life out of their wicked form. Dreams hold the power of the dreamer, and no other to inspire save those equally afflicted. In the reality of hope I see you, arms outstretched and a smile that lights your lips afire.

“I wish that you had faith,” I whisper to no one in particular.

I’d been on this trail hundreds of times in my life. It remains one of my favorite places to be. It’s meditative. It’s peaceful. It refreshes my soul.

As had happened so many times before, I passed an old man walking with his dog. He always went in the opposite direction. It would take him mostly on a decline rather than upward, and was generally a bit easier to finish. We’d always say our good mornings, as his happy dog would quickly sniff me out before deciding the birds were a much more enjoyable prey.

Today, though, something was missing. I noticed it right away as he approached. His dog was much closer to him than was ordinarily the case, and he wasn’t walking with his normal gait. It was like someone had placed a heavy weight on him, and he was having a hard time walking with it.

He was wearing dark sunglasses, unusual for him as I knew him on this trail. He wore the same hat I’d always seen him in, but it didn’t look the same. His hair seemed disheveled beneath it. It seemed today he wore that hat not to protect his head from the Sun, but to hide the mess underneath it from the world. I took all of that in as I realized the most important thing that was missing in this scene.

She was not with him.

She was always the first one to say “good morning”. Her smile was easily seen from a distance, and the cadence of her footfalls always seemed to be one he would try to match. They were always talking and laughing as they walked, and her morning greeting seemed to be a signal to him that he should share in her kindness. She seemed to uplift him, and give him a certain lightness, and he seemed to be a satellite to her, his star.

“Good morning, sir,” I said a bit earlier than normal. He sighed, and mumbled a “good morning” barely audible in reply.

“How are you?” I asked.

“You don’t want to know,” he said. I’m sure he believed it to be true. Most don’t ask that question truly wanting an honest reply.

“Sure I do. Is everything ok?”

I could feel his sadness begin. It was like the early stages of a tsunami, the energy around him receding as the power of his torment seemed to build. I braced for what was about to come.

“My wife died last week. We’d been married for over 50 years, and walked here almost every day of those 50 years. This is the first time I’ve been here since she died.”

“Oh,” I replied, “I’m so sorry. Are you ok?”

“I’m doing the best I can, considering. We had never spent much time apart, so this is all new to me. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to dump on you like this.”

“Please. I’m here. We are all in this together, my friend. You were blessed to have each other. She may not be with you physically right now, but I will bet anything that she’s with you where it matters most.”

I could see a tear spill past his dark sunglasses. I was sure it was not the only one that had followed a trail down his cheek. The dog came and sat near him, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she was following some command no one else could hear.

He looked down at her. “I still got Pearl,” he said. My heart responded silently, “And she still has you.”

“Well, I have to go,” said the old man by the lake. Maybe I’ll see you next time. Have a great day.”

“I hope so. You too. Maybe I’ll walk your direction some day. I’ve never done it.”

“Try it sometime. You may like it,” he said as he took his first step, a note of humor in his voice. Pearl took the lead, forcing him to pick up his gait a bit. The sounds of the small stones crunching under his feet heard no echo on this walk, but I doubt he noticed. I’d bet he was busy having a very intense conversation in his heart with a part of it he so desperately wanted to hear reply.

I turned and went back to the meditative way I usually walk this path when on my own. The sounds of the stone crunching under my feet have a certain rhythm to them, often giving me a vibe that has me completely in tune and in love with everything around me. It seemed, to me, that no one is truly ever gone from our lives, that the feelings inspired by both their physical and emotional presence last our entire lives. We are inspired by reminders, and our ability to remember (rejoin) with them.

The energy of the stones crunching as I walk reminds me. The way the Sun looks caressing the lake reminds me. The relationship I saw between the old man and his wife reminded me. The loss he felt reminded me. The blessing of love he shared reminded me. I may often walk this path alone, but I am not ever truly alone.