The Remains of the Moment

Not everyone takes the time to appreciate the everyday of every day. Under intense scrutiny, the commonplace can become quite unique. Like with a single snowflake, indifinitely different from any other; it is only too easy to stand back and only see a snowbank. Time is not lost to one who walks slowly to work.

The othe morning, still dopey with sleep to want to get up, he watched a bar of sunlight on the wall slowly and gradually descend as the sun rose.

Yesterday, during lunch, he watched a skeletal leaf be tossed around by a funnel of wind. And he waited and wondered -- all the while eating absently -- whether it would ever escape and touch the ground again so that it could rest and catch its breath.

Attending and celebrating the Easter Vigil mass, he smiled as he considered how the assembled parish rose and stood as though an ocean wave was slowly moving underneath the pews from the front to the back. And he prayed the Our Father silently so that he could hear the assonance of a thousand voices speak out the last stanza.
Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our tresspasses,
As we forgive those who tresspassed against us,
And lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil.
Amen.

It takes a certain focus, or perhaps a lack thereof, he thought to himself. And then he sighed and finished his pasta.