The sky is pale blue, powder blue, baby blue, with splashes and smears of grey clouds. There is a faint lightness in the west, and right down near the lake, a dull orange stripe. The sun set long since, and a faint breeze blows through the windows and plays with my hair.
Tonight I am full of feeling, the type I usually can’t afford, the type that comes with goodbyes and the ache of past and future goodbyes.
The papaya trees are swaying. They remind me of gigantic dandelion clocks, a riot of texture on a long stalk, ripe for wishing. The wind on my skin is welcome. But I can’t summon joy tonight. Not even at the sky, the living palate of deepening blues and greys above me, the brush marks clearer than the eyes of a child.
It is the eyes of a child that led to all of this. All of me. I learned to love because of them. Christmas, the birth of Christ. The birth of salvation. It is over, officially. Three hundred and fifty-one sleeps until Christmas. But something of the spirit remains with me, tenderly. Such a blessing cannot be confined to a day. Such a blessing can’t even be confined to the three-month extravaganza Christmas has become.
Darkness encroaches now, and the song of cicadas is like bells, like worship.
We still come. We still adore Him.