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Writer's pictureCarly McDonald

Anxious or Happy

News of a passing breeze reaches me —

One that floats, and swirls, and whisps peacefully

One that rustles old trees that glow golden in the late evening sunbeams.


My ears tense as they wait, listening expectantly

I hear footsteps approaching, they groan and they squeak rhythmically

And fall slow and heavy on the concrete.


The young children start giggling —

Their soft chatter goes up into the air as if tangling

With the quickly dimming ashes, floating and dancing.


I tense once again, this time more fearfully

For something I’m scared to believe —

Something called gravity.


I’m watching and waiting and listening half expecting

That piercing screams will soon be reaching me.

The air remains still, just gently blowing —

The giggles of children still rhythmically going.


The squeaking has stopped —

Grandpa is seated.

I hear his voice breaking into the flow of my thoughts and I pause —

to listen.


“There’s a passing breeze,” he begins to speak,

“But it’s peaceful and doesn’t concern me.

no use spending out all my anxiety.”


He is breathing ever so deeply —

And I watch him with growing envy.


Now the fire is dancing on his worn and stretched face —

Sunbeams are swallowed by shadow —

And so gone is the day —

All the time that I’ve wasted with tasteless anxiety.


He peers up at the stars and slowly makes a remark,

“It’s a wonder those things are still smiling down on me.”


He has lived all his days.

And he loves what each gave.

All the good and the bad —

To him, wonderfully great.


He was never once lacking —

Nor filled with anxiety.

He has always been peaceful and still —

He is breathing.


But yet —

Not simply breathing.

He is completely, undoubtedly,

Unmistakably happy.

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