Finding Momentum

On the days when the weather is right, I swear I can feel the tickle of young love: the kind that’s radi­ant, invit­ing, and easy to fall into. It’s sim­ple and charm­ing and as light as goosefeathers.

On some odd days, I can vaguely remem­ber the approach to the precipice of old love, woolen, worn & mon­u­men­tal. We knew we were on the verge of cross­ing, but never sure how to look over to the other side. Young love is easy, I real­ize, but old love is not.

Old love is famil­iar yet ill-fitting, like bump­ing shoul­ders with strangers in ele­va­tors. You never notice it arriv­ing, and when it has, it’s mor­phed. The taste changes in your mouth; the notes go all blue and glassy like black piano keys.

I tried to hold her lone­li­ness once, bal­anc­ing it between both palms and guess­ing at its secrets. Like most note­books go, it was silent and weighty and impor­tant. We bound it back up quickly, leav­ing crin­kles in the seams. Some­times I still won­der if I could have borne its weight.

Look­ing back, it was my embar­rass­ment that caught me off guard. Nobody told me about it, a bottled-up outside-in feel­ing, a silly and shame­ful con­fu­sion. I felt child­like, at a loss of answers, want­ing to hide. This I’ve learnt, too: I must run quickly to the father, before my armor thickens.

Yah­weh is my father I heard some­one once cry, and I will do the same. He has gifted us a hun­dred sad­nesses for our good, and we will soon (soon) sing songs in fire­light and know again the barely-floating sen­sa­tions of joy. He is the one who has ordained for us the sea­sons. I will yield to his grip and sub­mit to his kiln. Stay low to the ground I heard once, and felt it True.