I write from my porch overlooking the city. It’s cold today, and the rain splatters against the awning in a rhythmic pitter-patter, a euphonious reminder of when we sat under the lanai together chatting for a few hours while it rained during our visit to the Big Island. I close my eyes and, for a moment far too brief, I feel the salty breeze on my skin. Hear the crash of the waves against the lava rock. But then the steady thunder of the waves melts into the hum and drone of cars driving by and I open my eyes back to reality.
I imagine you are sitting under that very same lanai journaling just like I am. Though while I’m having my afternoon tea, you’re having your morning coffee. My day is in the beginning stages of wrapping up, but yours is just beginning. The birds are chirping. Perhaps you’re having the island’s mouth watering avocado on your toast. You’re probably barefoot. I wiggle my toes in their socks, trying to remember the feeling of the sand between my toes. This mental time travel fills me with warmth and love and a still contentment I haven’t felt since before you left. I stand and take a final sip of my tea and say, “Jackie, today is yours. I wonder what you will do with it?”
I pick up my journal and head inside.
On the subject of the spectrum of love
We know that from time to time
There arise among human beings
People who seem to exude love as
Naturally as the sun gives out heat
We would like to be like that
And by & large mans religions are
Attempts to cultivate that same power
In ordinary people