There is flavor in places that we do not expect. It is in the kindness shown to us by our children based on what they have learned from us when we did not know that we were teaching. It is in the ghosts of songs long forgotten half a century ago. The young man who knew that song waves through a smokey window that can never be cleaned.
The empty room once again fills with voices and laughter and the sound of people eating and drinking. New loves, fresh and bright, never knowing the tragedy that comes so much later on. As the crowd gets louder I experience it all again, alone. Alone as I was then, alone now too, but this time the great ballroom is empty as they all fade away.
For 20 years pain has been a traveling companion and well, I resigned to that a long time ago. A bitter brew I drink tonight, with the hope that there might just be answers where no one is looking. You know I am going to laugh at myself if this works.
The towers of song as abundant as those of Khobar become even more numerous all of the time. As I pass them I am sad and as I hear the sound from the windows I dance with joy, thankful for the gifts.
The point of this is, what we value can be something we don’t even know or identify. Later on every moment manifests itself into what it will be. Dad told Brooke when she asked why we were so good when we were children. His answer was, “Brooke, it’s the love.”
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