A soft blanket of dust runs along the brow of some of the most discreet objects in my home. Precious when held in the palm of the hand, they are little in the vastness of the world they belong to. Not unlike humans.
These times are like a great wild wave washing on the human shore, reminding us of how little we are in the vastness of the world. How irrelevant.
And yet, how precious.
I long to feel my mother’s hand in my own. To see my nephew’s first steps. To hug my friend.
Dust of moments that could not be coiled in a small pile in the pit of my heart.