A winding snake of reds and browns
Going down for miles.
His heavy breathing breaks the silence.
The thick heat pressing against his creased aging skin as he shouts,
“At last!”
His voice punctures the air,
And begins to travel.
Loud and booming at first,
But making its way down the canyon
Until it dies away,
softer and softer with each ripple of the echo.
A boy overlooks the vastness before him.
A simple pond with no waves,
No movement at all.
Brushing soft blond curls out of his eyes,
A half smile curls upward on his young face.
An abundance of greens hide the boy in his private place.
A place to watch life grow each day,
As he himself grows in the process.
By his size three sneakers is a smooth black rock.
He picks it up and fits it in the palm of his hand,
Perfecting his grip, thumb pressed on top,
Forefinger linked to the side.
With a flick of the wrist, the rock whizzes away.
Through the fresh summer air.
Hitting the water with a thump! and splash.
Then it came,
Spreading to the outer edges of the pond.
Ripples in the water created movement,
Gave the water life.
I overlook the vastness before me.
Wading in knee deep water
Sun partway up in the early morning sky
A keen eye on the ocean floor,
Only to notice my bare feet gripping the sand.
Eyebrows furrow, fingers running along the surface,
Exploring for that special reward.
An early morning’s hunt in the low tide.
Nowhere in sight.
Until I feel a light tap on my shoulder.
Slowly I pivot, only to see a little boy.
The boy standing there,
Hands down by his side.
Suddenly reaching out for my hand,
Carefully pressing a circular object in my palm.
As quick as he came, he is gone,
No words exchanged.
I look down to see my new gift.
A perfect, white sand dollar.
Flutters in my stomach,
I finally have what I’ve searched for.
As I look up again,
Smile on my face,
All I see of the boy are his blond curls,
Beautifully dancing in the ocean breeze,
Bobbing in the distance.
I walked that summer.
Barefoot on the path to nowhere.
Right hand pressed against my chest.
A memory around my neck.
I stroke my fingers against the gift,
The perfect, white sand dollar.
As I walk,
I see a man.
An aged man sitting in a lawn chair,
Fresh green grass brushing against his fragile ankles.
He sits outside a brick building,
The Hospice building.
I stroke my necklace,
I remember the boy with the curls.
My feet take me to the man,
My legs sit me down next to him,
My mouth does the talking,
And my ears do the listening.
We talked everyday that summer.
I told him my stories,
He told me his.
His wisdom was still in my thoughts,
As I walked home,
And I spread his stories to those around me.
We talked about kindness,
About changing the world
In little ways.
And each day when I arrived,
He greeted me with two special words:
“At last.”
