On this stop in my life, in this station they call Formosa, the “beautiful island,” I meet people that I love in unknown faces. Though the tint of their skin and lilt in their stride my not rhythm with the glint in my heart’s smile-they hold resemblance enough to remind of a dusk shrouded roof where time stood silent between our intertwined fingers, our spirits made love to the melody of our breathing-and we believed in each other.
Her scarf speaks of mirror photographs along a small Russian window shop in an unknown city-asking questions that do not have answers and answers with no questions to follow
His birthright draws photos of outback travels with a whitebearded man and his snakes-connecting in his struggle to reunite his spirits to the mountain from which he came from
Her laughter is the essence of her half fulled joy along side a half concealed sorrow that acknowledges the pain of letting go-the possibilities of a half eaten dream.
His step is that of gifts given freely alongside a dedication to what does not exist in a world of white plaster walls and keys to “success”-he wants to know what it is to have hope and joy on the same fingertip and be able to inhale until his spirit is full.
Her lips are my mother’s, giving admonishment and compassion in the same sentence-exuding bravery in unspoken stories and joy in ordinary occurrences-asking to give while still learning how to receive
His glasses remind of dancing jigs on dark street corners, small boxes with big hearts, and softly whispered secrets in broccoli over beef -an honesty to the knowledge that love is more than connections of a present moment and although change may not make me brave, it is not always forgotten.
So as I stare deeply into these faces, sometimes catching them and making them uncomfortable or curious, I catch glimpses of my past and I wonder if I believe in the present. Just praying for Faith in the understanding that Spirits mingle in miraculous ways.
~marcia lee
Following My Feet 