COVETED FRUIT

A red ripe fruit; perhaps peach, or better apple, no, it could be mango;
One ready to be harvested;
Many are the fruits that hang from the other branches, this captures attention;
A seasoned fruit; succulent and perhaps tasty;
My fingers reach out to pluck it from the branch;
I stretch further to feel its smooth peel;
A fruit so beautiful, one that could satisfy….

My fingers gently graze its surface; confirms my earlier thoughts;
So tender, seasoned but firmly on the branch;
Its beauty leaves me in awe and desire;
I don’t want to grab it from the branch it holds so dear;
I wish to pluck it in the gentlest way

Alas……….

Around the fruit tree are gathered other fruit harvesters; armed with their tools;
Tools so accurate, closer to my beloved fruit than my hands;
Their eyes on my treasure and are likely to reach it before me;
But I can’t use the steel equipment to graze its peel;
I wish to use my hands, my gentle hands to appreciate its texture…
Before plucking it……………….

As my desired fruit hangs tight to its branch, not wishing to let go

So does apple of my eye in real life
I wish to reach out to draw him closer to me;
But he holds to his past so tightly and is not ready to let my hand reach out for him;
Around me are many admirers; many of who have better argument than mine;
However, what I feel for him ties me down;
It’s a feeling gentle and free; doesn’t want to hurt or graze his heart;
Not ready to force him to me;

Just like the fruit, that I stretch out my hand and hope to feel its texture;
I will stretch out my arms and wait for him to come to me;
If he falls in the arms of another;
He will be like my beautiful fruit in the basket of another harvester,,

This is the price to pay for loving a “coveted fruit”

HIS WALKING STICK, MY UMBRELLA

Strolling with my umbrella in hand earlier this evening I was reminded of someone very special in my life; my dad! The umbrella reminded me of my father’s walking stick. Having lived in England for a while, he adopted the English culture in a few ways and the walking stick was one of them. With every step I took, I leaned on my umbrella as though it was my walking stick. I remembered the moments I had watched my father lean on his stick while he took his walking rounds at dusk. It suddenly hit me that just as I loved evening walks and my umbrella, so does the man whom I adore so much.

It may mean nothing to you as you read this blog but I write it especially for him. He may need the support of his special walking stick because he has passed on to us all his strength. Over time, I have been through the mill in my life and every time I almost gave up, the strength I received down from him made me rise up and try again. I have had my share of mistakes and shortcomings and am far from perfection but my heart is filled with humility because I witnessed the life of a humble man. His name may not appear in the books and no song may have been sung about him, but he lives in my heart.

As my footsteps followed the strokes of my umbrella, I felt as though I was walking in the steps of my father. I write my own destiny every day with the decisions I make but the lessons I picked from observing the life lived by my parents guide me. Moments when I often felt lost and lonely, the memories of a loving father keeps me alive. A man who even though loves his walking stick is strong and solid as a rock. I may never have a golden heart as he has and I may sacrifice less than he has for us but I am thankful today that he is my father.

I could go on and on of how proud I am to be his daughter but some of the special memories, I hope to share with my children some day and tell them of the love I had while growing up. Even though it was unspoken, it is so loud in his actions, silence and his sense of humor. I see my umbrella and I feel his presence and love. I see him in me and I hope his strength I keep through the tough times yet to come; his love, I hope to share with those around me and his humility to be an example to emulate. This night, I pray that he is safe wherever he is and he knows that his daughter thinks of him.

What reminds you of that special person in your life? It could be as simple as an umbrella or even yet simpler your image in the mirror. This evening it was my umbrella, perhaps tomorrow it would be something else but every day I think of the "angels " who have graced my path and continue to do so. One of them holds a walking stick...