Water from the Creek

Some days announce themselves through consequence. Others are held together by a few ordinary acts.

Water carried up from the creek. Mud left beside the door. A question from my daughter that deserves a better answer than the hurried one I first provide. Bread cooling while the light disappears from the room.

Nothing about the afternoon would survive as news. That may be why I want to keep it.

The grand narrative of a life is often assembled later, with the confidence of hindsight. Living happens at another scale. A bucket. A path. A hand reaching for yours without ceremony.

I am trying to become more faithful to that scale.