Who remembers a weary, elderly man,
settling into the twilight of his former self?
Who has spare time for a frail, mature woman perched on a walker,
struggling to keep pace with life's spirited changes?

Who remembers the unemployable father or the retired mother,
when they no longer draw a salary;
when life no longer decorates them with lofty titles?

Love is wont to talk in tongues, but it always speaks a universal language.
Love has a familiar face - timeless and transient.
Sometimes, it is measured.

Other times, it is spontaneous and unpredictable.
Sometimes, it is illogical and just defies logic.

I remember a simpler time.
Back when less seemed like more and charity was homegrown;
when families had time to celebrate closeness over good food;
and conversations sprang up spontaneously like wild flowers;
when strangers were regarded not as strangers,
but as new friends in waiting.
A time when elders were co-parents even to unfamiliar children

and relished the right to teach them the path.

I will not hide.
I am determined to keep my head above the parapet.
I like to hear the sweet perfumes of spring whistling in my ears
and to taste the scintillating scents of a brisk breeze seeping effortlessly into my thoughts.
I enjoy the feel of an early sun rising high in the air to greet me.

When silence whispers,

it so often touches the soul.
It ruminates like love songs,
and its voice resembles the soft chants of slow-moving water

as it kisses the jagged faces of rocks.
It makes me homesick…

And I want to see you with my skin,

touch you with my eyes.
It makes me want to feel

the serene sounds of daylight cascading in the air.
And I want to taste the wholeness of this quiet stillness.

Yesterday carries generous blossoms.

They sprout on leafy branches and cast long shadows.

Yesterday is like a vessel
but not merely where old memories loiter.
It has a mind of its own.
And if left unguarded,
it quietly raises barriers.

Yesterday is a long winding road.
It is ambivalent, ambidextrous, and cunning.

Sometimes, it is exacting, quite unforgiving.
It lives vicariously on the broad shoulders of time.
Sometimes, it smiles and dances.

Sometimes, the heavens bellows
and cries out in silence.
But not all tears foretell sorrow.
Some presage happiness, hopeful joy.
Sadly, we seldom grasp the difference.

Little time is spared to listen to the beauty in the present.
We are deaf to the universe's subtle voice;
too consumed by self-made psychodramas.

We clamour foolishly to predict the future;
but overlook the gifts nesting on our noses.
Overdosed on the elixir of envy,

we lament what we do not have;
while tentacles of discontent obscure what we do have.

Time weeps.

It sheds real tears this time of year.
There is never enough Christmas cheer to soothe old scars.
And Santa is selective.
He only frequents certain postcodes,
although the shelves are emptying slowly.
I decided I must cull the unchaperoned memories
and replace them with old, rejuvenated photos that were once
ripe with laughter.
They still look perfect.