By Zac Adam
I occupy the equivalent of a speck in this torrent of time and space commonly called now.
A gust of years will surely drive me away—away from the specks I love the most.
I don’t want to go.
For the moment, I am permitted to love. To hold. I’m allowed to gaze at laughter and embrace being embraced by little embracers.
Brood of inexplicable happiness.
Torture is knowing the hugs expire. Knowing that little hands grow big and wave goodbye.
I’m told that Goodness directs the winds that take me away. That grace is in the air, seeing this speck to a good place.
Somedays are easier than others to believe that, and I do believe that, but until I arrive, such grace will feel like pain.
Please, Goodness, send separately if You must, but to the same place I beg.
Pity this speck.