Starting With You
Sunday, June 26, 2016
Every end must have a beginning, and in itself represents a new one. Sometimes, for the sake of drama and emotion, we consider the man lying comatose in a hospital bed for most, if not all of his life as the man worthy of sympathy; the armed soldier putting his life up for sacrifice for the nation's sake as a man worthy of being crowned a hero; the secret spy of an international organization as the master of shadows and subterfuge.
And perhaps, where these cases are concerned, credit is due where it is deserved.
But what most people fail to see is the single red rose that a broken, penniless man gifts to his lover, or the deep cut from a chainsaw a father suffers from a single mistake he made at the factory that costed him his arm forever, only to feed his children who had no mother to call their own.
A hero may fight and bleed, win and lose, but so do we.
Taking this into account today, I stand here amidst the crowd of bodies shuffling about in all directions around me almost in a blur of a myriad of colors. I smell a sharp lavender, a clean soap scent, the stench of sweat and dirty socks, and the unmistakable flavor of baked goods.
I see a woman seated eight steps away, face in her hands and weeping her heart out, a couple that embraces one another, glad to be finally reunited, I see the haunted look on a man's face as he walks past an unsuspecting lady dressed in branded goods, see him expertly undo the zip on her handbag and pocket her tiny purse without her noticing.
I feel the coolness of the air conditioning, the bearable warmth each person exudes as they stride close enough to me, the dirt scrunch beneath my boot as I squirm on the spot, and the pressure of the piercing stare someone is directing at me.
I turn to my right, just slightly, to see who exactly it is that seems intent enough to look at me this intensely. I see a man, tall, dark, and handsome. He has his hands in his pockets of his jeans, just as I had mine in the pockets of my vest.
Our gazes connect, and in his eyes I see a new pathway alight.
And perhaps, where these cases are concerned, credit is due where it is deserved.
But what most people fail to see is the single red rose that a broken, penniless man gifts to his lover, or the deep cut from a chainsaw a father suffers from a single mistake he made at the factory that costed him his arm forever, only to feed his children who had no mother to call their own.
A hero may fight and bleed, win and lose, but so do we.
Taking this into account today, I stand here amidst the crowd of bodies shuffling about in all directions around me almost in a blur of a myriad of colors. I smell a sharp lavender, a clean soap scent, the stench of sweat and dirty socks, and the unmistakable flavor of baked goods.
I see a woman seated eight steps away, face in her hands and weeping her heart out, a couple that embraces one another, glad to be finally reunited, I see the haunted look on a man's face as he walks past an unsuspecting lady dressed in branded goods, see him expertly undo the zip on her handbag and pocket her tiny purse without her noticing.
I feel the coolness of the air conditioning, the bearable warmth each person exudes as they stride close enough to me, the dirt scrunch beneath my boot as I squirm on the spot, and the pressure of the piercing stare someone is directing at me.
I turn to my right, just slightly, to see who exactly it is that seems intent enough to look at me this intensely. I see a man, tall, dark, and handsome. He has his hands in his pockets of his jeans, just as I had mine in the pockets of my vest.
Our gazes connect, and in his eyes I see a new pathway alight.
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