How to Live

It is a finger snap. A bad relationship. I have lost more years to the fog of a cloudy memory; years of nothing connected by landmark moments in my life.

Life. It’s a wish in the wind carried on the petals of a daisy, and as such carries along and lasts just as long as there’s a breeze to lift and dance the moments of each day. If I only had but a short time left, that is where I would start – to find a breeze to make each day blend long and lovingly into the next. But there is always hope. And God, the two things that remain after you peel back the layers and reveal the simplicity of life.

That’s what I would do. I’d make things easy. I would stop driving to work in the morning. I would get up with my wife and daughter, and start the day with a smile.

I would still go to work each day.
But the work would not be the mundane toil that generates a paycheck; it would be the work of a legacy, soft and strong, a reminder of who I was and what I offered, and an investment into the future. I would write books. I know, just as I know how to say my name, that I have one, maybe more, inside my heart and mind. I would write one poem a day, about the grass. And the stars, the crooked smile on my daughter’s face, the cool touch of my wife’s hand. I would write about it all. I would write enough songs for an album, never to be sung except in the hearts of those I love. And I would pray, but not for salvation — except perhaps in weak moments when my will wavered and my sorrow rushed the void. I would try to pray for my family, and for peace and strength. And I would pray that God was listening, and that he cared.

Mostly, I would stop worrying about the future, because a finger snap has no future and no past — just the collision of thumb and finger, the punctuation of the present.

Five years, or fifty, perhaps that is something I ought to put more time into enjoying.

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