The innocent face wore a look of shock and understanding. The cord was pulled suffocatingly from the infant’s mouth. With it came the soul, hovering, it wasn’t yet time. Yet this forced intent was put into motion by an accident of selfishness. Warmth could still be felt. From the soles of the tiny feet left on ones bare back.
I invite you to learn about my self published book.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I– I took the ones less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
While driving back roads in New England I often think of the second to last line, ‘I took the one less traveled by,’ and smile as I turn down a dirt road I do not know. And now, with Gavin and Megan, we are getting to know the back roads of Maine. We’ve just begun and my heart sings to learn where every one of them go.
We watch the father watching the girl. He didn’t think he was seen. His eyes traveled her body and was certainly seen. The father turned to his wife who turned away. She asked their son if he’d like go for a walk. The beach was busy. The boy said yes and forever I go.
The little boy kissed his bruised knee. He brushed the dirt from his body while standing. He’d barely made it across the stream. The log was fine. It was the vine that gave way. He flung a stone into the deep pool near the opposite bank and listened to the splash. It gave him no feeling. ‘Why can’t I be smart like her?’ he said out loud. The frog had been watching. ‘You know’ said the frog, ‘we forget so often. Smart is not a thing. I watched you run full stride onto the log and latch onto the vine. You were flying toward the banking in serious fashion. The vine gave out. Your eyes had told you, within a moment, exactly what you needed to do to make your flight. Did you sit and draw this out. No. Your mind did the work and you acted. Smart is not a thing. Smart is a moment and a moment does not last. Sometimes we forget to understand numbers are numbers because we call them so. When really, they are lines put into place to make something we tell ourselves to know. Do you see?’