Another foggy morning. See the wisps float over the cold and empty field.
My wife and her high school girlfriends, class of 1967, frequently gather as they all turn 70. Their love for each other is a warm wind across the sand, a sunny morning. Yesterday I told them, “You all get lovelier every year,” and I could tell they thought I was being silly or flirtatious. I wasn’t. Truly, each of them is beautiful. Golden. A warm breeze across the sand. A sunny morning. Time is merely the jewelry that adorns them.
If the world is difficult and life is difficult, it may not be that there is something wrong with life or the world—it may be that there is something wrong with our descriptions.