It was on his heart. He wished to share. For this, he sought to say.
He asked, and she agreed, meeting at coffee shop within walking distance of her home.
Early March day, morning sun broke in a light and warmth that flirts with the trees inviting budded blossoms and leaves to share in open. Still, time was too soon. Leaves and blossomed saved away while basking and taking pleasure in warmth, light, and attention shined from the flirting sun.
Years and time ago, she had been the one wanted—desired, dreamed, prepared in plan for life that never was, although both of them had tried.
Years and time and much life since, an affinity remained; and, for that, they stayed away.
Still, it was on his heart. He wished to share. For this, he sought to say.
They met at counter of the coffee shop, each ordering and paying for self. She ordered first, he second, and as he waited for its make, she settled at a table in enter of the room.
She was as beautiful as he remembered; more so, even, in way of change—child at side—beauty of maternal love and essence that makes romance of all Creation.
He saw her so, endeared and awed, as she took to rest in the morning sun, setting and stabling child on lap before.
His coffee arrived, and he met there at center table in the room. Sun in face, it slightly blinded in backlight above shadow and line of her silhouette in place across from him.
A cloud moved. Sun softened, and he could see her clear again—straight fall of hair that fanned at ends in rest and spread upon her shoulder; plaid pattern of flannel on shirt she wore in the warming but still cool spring; a meekness in eyes, as sun’s change in the cloud, uncertain but open to be near to him again.
She brushed her hair, two fingers’ run along side of face that combed and swept loose strands to place and hold behind her ear, a way she’d always done when pensive or in muse—small detail he’d always loved.
But it was not for romance or relive of a past that was reason for his seek.
It was on his heart. He wished to share. He found the words to say.
“I prayed for you today,” he spoke, beginning. “Today and the day before, and I don’t know how many or how long. I prayed you have a large, late family—and the crowded table like in the song you used to sing—because you are a beautiful mother and a beautiful soul and the world’s made better and more beautiful by these. I prayed this too because, by child, I believe you see and have come to believe in the God you never found in other’s preachings or imperfect, human, living of The Word.
I believe, in child, you see the miracle and the truth of the Word—made in the image of God—and in manifest of Creation and the make of new life, you’ve received new life too, converted, believing, and made anew.
Your daughter is beautiful, and you are too. I just wanted to say and tell. You should see the way you light one another, but I know that you can feel it.
I just wanted to say, I prayed for you…”
Message spoken, tension in his spirit eased as he released weight of himself into support and rest of the chair. He drank from his coffee, and though it was black, there was no bitterness. It was mellow and smooth, gentle and meek, in a plain and natural goodness.
Yellow-soft of morning light touched to motes around that shaped the light into bodied rays that filtered and floated in translucent form about table and the room.
Light touched to her hair. It sheened in reply, radiant in respondent gleam.
She shared no words, only a smile; not to him but to child before and on to a something more—supernal he could not see—residing in the light.
Looking up from lap, her daughter laughed in giggle of merriment and glee that drew from her mother same, both radiant and lovely in beauty of light and spirit.
Unspoken, privately—she believed.
Message complete, his purpose was at end. Rest was hers to choose.
“I ought to be heading,” he spoke in end. “It was wonderful to see you. You both are beautiful souls,” he spoke in end, smiling on the child, who smiled and giggled still, her light shining welcome-spirited onto him.
End of words, he rose and she did too—last hug and touch they’d ever share, heavened warmth of hold in press.
He departed from shop into the light and for the something—supernal—that resides.
