So This Is Paradise After All

There are some things that stick with a man right to the finish. Like the smell of fresh cut hay, as intimate as the first time you felt a woman's breast; both a sense that somehow, through it all, the world is after all a very good place. Like sitting in the quiet of late night's purity under the darkness above the world broken and scattered by the light of stars so far away even dreams cannot reach them, but they so gracefully and faithfully come to us. Like leaning against the garage door sill facing West at dusk saying goodnight to the sun as it waves in shadows through the Maple branches; and the breeze brings memories unnameable as a gift to your soul; and you have no gift of your own to return except the tear on your cheek that the breeze seems so content to accept, and carry with it forever. Like the feeling, of which you have no idea from where it originates, that all of life's journey is a longing, a searching, a finding of the place we all are most homesick for yet cannot recall ever being from, a place where the child of our heart never left, and still stands watching, awaiting our inevitable return.