AFTER WORDS

I write most often what I live. Moments when I am at a crossroad and I choose one direction and take a step in that direction but- something happens on the other road - I have not travelled far enough to have left the crossroad behind - and I turn around and I see! I see something I might have prevented perhaps or given more attention to. It's the not knowing whether I'd have made a difference...

A time and place splintering of moments too precious to let go by unrecorded.

After words, the looking back at steps taken and doors ahead to behold. Then the words after the words.

There's always ever been me and a door. Rather a series of doors which, left ajar or partially open, present as invitations to enter. So I enter. Sometimes there are EXIT signs bright-lit above them but they are unseen by me; I ever-assuming I am entering something, never leaving it.

There is that final door to contemplate, however. As time passes and I find myself near enough to reach out and touch the handle - though it remains closed for now - I gaze at it from time to time.

Pondering on the when is useless, as is the what and why. What matters ultimately is the who. Who I shall be when I finally enter, and who shall be left behind better, for having known me.

I ever striving to give much more than I receive. I, wishing to leave behind six fond smiles. (The seventh reserved for my own lips.)