This is a morning rainbow over a mountain called Ladron, which means 'bandit', and is fittingly the peak after which my dear service dog was named, for she stole my heart.
But I can't stop to look back. Not so much because there's a lot ahead, but because the pain of loss leaches the joy from today.
I think that for anyone with cancer, maybe more is lost than is realized.
Like, a shared cup of coffee, or a stroll around the block, or the comfort of a marital bed.
I can scarcely remember what these things were like, and don't want to, because loss will weaken resolve needed for the present moment. There may not be a vast bright future, but I believe, and HAVE to believe, that I still have something worthwhile to give in the now, and that it's wrong to allow sentimentality to dilute that.
So I leave the memories in God's hands, to be unpacked, to live again, in another time and place.
I think back to The Good Old Days,
the hikes, Starbucks, and pillow talks,
offer for them thanks and praise,
then put them in God's attic box
that is marked 'Not To Be Opened'
as I walk upon the Earth;
its seal will stay strong and unbroken
until I pass that great rebirth
into the place of God's own time,
when yesterday lives side by side
with today, fresh in its prime,
and there is no need to hide
from sorrow over what is gone,
for there the past's a bright new dawn.
The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is REPRESENT.
I come from far Mongolia,
perhaps birthed in a tent,
no scent there of magnolia,
so I shall represent
the line to which I have been born,
the Horde and Genghis Khan,
and from this I cannot be torn;
it's simply who I am,
ready now to go and ride,
to raid and loot and pillage;
try to run, or try to hide,
we're coming to your village,
and we'll live in your memory
in our ruthless majesty.
Three minutes flat. Maybe that says something I maybe didn't want folks to know?
Music from The Moody Blues, with I Know You're Out There Somewhere.