This is inspired from a writing of Brian Doyle (https://theamericanscholar.org/why-do-we-not-sing-these-things-as-miracles/#.VvQ6O-IrLIU). Please pardon if I did bit more than I can chew.
I
say wrinkles and you think of the
bedspread after you have had slept like a baby in the arms of your love. I say blanket and you are beside the lake with
the stars over you. I say rope and
you think of how your big dog pulled you when you were small. I know you when I
say you haven’t forgotten the castle you built in sand, and how you leapt into
the puddle of water in rain, and the cold wind against your face, ruffling your
hairs, as you rolled down the coaster. And you were glad that the ride ended soon,
as your eyes were closed, yet you were also sad that it got over quickly
because you could still see everything. Your palms were sweating while your throat
was dry, like the way you felt while holding his or her hands for the first time,
and then many more times, and you thought it was the best thing that ever
happened to you until better things happened to you, when someone held just your
finger with both of their hands, because he or she is tiny and helpless and
sleeps almost all the time and yet knows you and trusts you.
I
say pungent and you are holding the
test-tube in the high school chemistry lab, or smoke, and there you are in the backyard having a barbecue, or bruise, and your father is helping you
get on the bicycle again after your third fall and you could tell from his
eyebrows that he is not worried. And you could wake up with the sun without an alarm,
or stay up with the moon without a yawn, and you could tell that your mother
isn’t pleased because you are scared and she’s not, even though it is your eyes
that are red. You know that you can run on the grass, barefoot, and in the
snow, for when you are a child, you don’t always paint the skies blue, or the
leaves green, but you know camels can fly and you are invincible.
You
know the silence while others had clamoured to remove the charred branches of
your favourite tree struck by lightning. You see the old photographs, and in an
instant you are doing the same things all over again. And you are not worried anymore about the way you were standing or the nose coming between the lips while you kiss. You
remember the time you went to see-off your dear cousin, after your first
vacation together, and he or she was right there and will soon be far away, and
you would give right now to have what was long ago.
I say now and you think of then, but which was always and will be,
whenever you have looked inside. You were humming these things, ever amused and
bewildered, and while I say miracles,
you were always singing softly, that they are the reasons anything ever
happened, and someday imagination will become memories and never fade.