Butterfly Hours
She was ten months old when I last saw her. Now, six years later,
I have only
a few days to catch up, to connect with my granddaughter.
We blow bubbles,
play mini-golf, toast marshmallows on a campfire,
and teach each other songs.
My camera is always near.
waterpark
laughter spills
across the grass
The hours fly past, and I cling to the hope that she'll remember
our time together. Her parents are missionaries, heading out on
another five-year stint in a foreign land. For months, I've been
aware of the briefness of this visit. Yet I'm still not prepared
for the short distance between hello and goodbye.
empty road...
the shape of a hug
lingers
|
|