Nothing heals like walks. And weather. And books. And innocence, children and the elderly alike. Sometimes, you don't want to take pictures. Because you don't want to interfere the moment with a lens. So, you just flash a smile, and take only a mental picture. From a distance. The two little boys of exactly the same height in raincoats, grinning, mischief written all over their faces. The little tiny wild white flowers, glorious against a bright, brazen green. The children, doubling up with laughter and excitement on a carousel. The sun, surprising you with a stray gleam on your eyes while the evening rain is still drizzling mildly. And the scent. Of rain. Of earth that has been made love to. Of grass that has been aroused. Of youth and infant, ochre dreams.
There is something wordlessly endearing about the grace of old age. About the stories, sickness and beliefs hidden in those wrinkles. Wasn't he just a stranger to me who had a five-minute conversation with me? Why did I choke then, when he talked about all his kids, and then said with a laugh that he had just one responsibility now, and then, pointed above with his stick? Love can find you anywhere, unaware, off-guard. Isn't love, the place where everything boils down, or melts up to?