Ohio tornado warnings. Forecasters doubting any real tornadoes visiting my town. Shame. I wish to see one and stare in awe. Yet all around gusting air suggests its own forecast. Spurting rain from nighttime skies. There was snow on the ground back on New Year’s Day. But the South visited, stealing the colorless white from us. Or maybe the South was soaked in heat and threw some north. Either way, today I jumped and ran, through puddles in the street not a mile from the house in which I reside. I could have sworn the humidity was palpable; nothing dried, the horizon didn’t want the water. So out here in Ohio we’re obliged to spread it around, as evenly or as sporadically as we may wish. And perhaps tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day after that, the horizon will call out and turn puddles to vapors which our human eyes cannot see. And I’ll wait till next time to jump and run again through puddles in the street.
Acquaintances return to what occupied them before December. Spread out over the country like a groundsman spreading fertilizer on summer lawns. This world shrinking the older I get, filled with all the more faces I can say I have befriended and met. Be fruitful and multiply, fill the earth. But the unspoken word inbetween: love all. Every life a story, every day their pen. Each one possessing a place on a sphere encircling a sun, wound and held together by a hand called Providence. Admit it or not. Every life a story writing the way they wish.
Facing the year and knowing December will be on the doorstep in the typical blink of an eye. Sitting, I feel each season’s anticipated ups and downs. The deathly humidity of summer and the first chills of the following months. So many cares. So many concerns. Maybe as many laughs drawing new lines on faces another year older.
Lines on faces so old. Each line a tale told in the way its creator wished. A laugh here. A laugh there. One year upon another. When we are young we walk past old faces and see the lines. We think little of them. But each line is a reminisce waiting to be told. Entertain us. Our ears filled with larger-than-life tales of hazy memories. Entertain us. While we sit on an open porch, iced lemonade in hand, the chill of the cool drink easing the rays of a burning summer’s sun.