If only we could see each other’s eyes

During my recent walks in my favorite enchanted forest, I’ve noticed that every day there are fewer lightning bugs, and more well-fed robins. As quickly as nature creates magic, it erases it. Ah, but I’ve fooled that old, contrary lady because her work continues to live in my memory and in my writing.

Well, I should say it lives on in my memory until she gets the last laugh when I’m old and feeble and can’t remember my own name or that robe sleeves aren’t edible, much less one magical moment. Perhaps that’s why the urge to write is so strong in many of us –an act of defiance against the end of both magic and mind.

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