Life Happens in the Journey [guest]

by Mark French

As I write to you, the light is dim in this coffee shop. I am seated in a leather chair in the corner by the door. The barista, a girl I've known for several years, empties the trash nearby and mutters to herself (and me) about the lack of a liner in the can. She has the same name as the woman I love. The world is so big, my love is so far away; I feel small.

I have always identified with the small, rooted for the underdog and dreamt that one small boy could make one big dream come true. Although time has lifted many stories to the wind, vivid memories of my childhood remain. With eyes closed I can hear the wicker swing hanging from the playhouse out back; remember how big it was, how easily I fit in it. I remember the sound of the trees swaying as the wind blew. Standing in my crib with my chin on the edge listening to my mom sing "Frere Jacques" as my sister and I were put to bed. There is something so right about these memories. When the house went quiet in the night my mother would hold me to her heart and hum; there was nothing to disturb the beating of her heart in my ears. There is so much in this world that I will not understand but this I know, something about life was right in that moment.

I can see the clouds moving by in the reflection of a car windshield outside. It is a dreary day in Washington state. My heart flits and flies as I hear the laughter of several people playing a game in my quiet cafe; it reminds me of the time I have spent with my love. My heart is like the sun today, I know it is warm and friendly, but I cannot see it. I can only remember what it was like when it shone just a few days ago as my love and I walked through the park hand in hand. My tea grows cold, as most things do, and their laughter fades into the voice on the radio. He sings the words that I could not sing which drove me to sit down and write.

The sun is nearly gone so I walk home. The light which briefly illuminated this somber day goes away, darkness is all that filters through the clouds. When the dark hedges so close I don't feel so small. I reach to turn off the light by my bed and pull the covers around my chin. My world is in my room. As I drift off to sleep, the realization settles in that you can never go back to where you began. Life is messy; it moves, twists, turns, splashes and never returns to where it began. We let go of what once seemed right as it slips through our fingers to find that place again.

Life
happens
in the journey...

-- Mark French lives in Lynden, WA. In his spare time he likes recording music and thinking of ways to take over the world. --