We live much of life amid unique choices. Joy is anchored in The One beyond our life. |
The days of life all find the mist as wing-ed youth turns ancient weight. My mother's cheeks, now long since kissed, sleeps by the side of her dear mate. The Christmas songs of long ago, the three-three thirds and forty-fives. The record players we did know no longer played, no longer thrive. Where is the rumble seat for trips? Where is the faux wood along-side? Vacations then are now just blips. We live here without parents' pride. Where are the days of pats-on-backs? Where are the days of medals won? Where are the smiles, that wiped all lacks? Where is encouragement as his son? These days are written in a Book. The Wisest One knows how to find the memory's bliss, the longing look, and when they're seen His Mercy's kind. by Jay O’Toole on July 12th, 2024 ![]() |