Moments come and pass in lightbulb flashes. Walking through doorways from one place to the next, hardly remembering how I got there. I spend a lot of time doing things because I feel like those things will make me happy. Remnants from childhood or stories I heard on television late at night. I like to pick up the newspaper from the street corner and fold it, carry it home, pour myself over the pages, ink stained fingers. I like to go on the same walk every morning and see the trees go from brown to green to brown to green. I like lighting a candle, because it’s something small to do. And I love calling someone on the phone and hearing their voice even though I could have just texted, or skyped, or emailed, or instant messaged, or facebooked.
Sometimes a voice carries into your ear like the trustworthy newsman reporting the news. At least, that’s how it was when I was a kid. The same man every night with the deep raspy tone, telling you what was going on, so seriously. And it was slightly calming, even if alarming, to hear that voice. The very predictable sound of it all coming straight to you, as if it were meant for you, something special for you.
I feel like I have a special appreciation for those little things because when the day comes in chunks, bits and pieces, when it crumbles and falls apart like a poorly matched game of jenga… the moments are what you’re left with. The way those small little things made you feel.