kerosene

a girl can only say she's sorry so many times and then she just has to show you, but if you never give her the chance, you'll miss out on seeing how much she means it and just how beautiful forgiveness can be.
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the fog comes in as a whispy white blanket atop the trees and lingers for days. if i stand on the back porch looking out for long enough i can remember nights when the voices of friends would bubble up behind me and the boards would creak beneath our feet and heavy laughter. our smoke trails lingering or mixing with the mist if we exhaled hard enough. sometimes forming the shapes of animals or insects in our imaginations and causing the younger of us to giggle, her eyes always sparkling, especially when we made them just for her. a butterfly from you, she'd say. a catipillar. an elephant. a moose if you dare. she'd clap and say she saw it even if the wind made it impossible. i can say i miss those nights, but i do not miss those days. the pain i carried was so deep and disheartening. unnessecary and overpowering. the night, the moon, the porch, the mist, the friends, they were my solace. my comforter. God revealing Himself in the mundane, offereing me a place of rest. a more consistant back porch experience, if you will. a way of taking those nights into the days ahead and not bearing my self-imposed baggage alone, but handing it over and not wallowing in the what's or where's or who's or how's, but enjoying the moments when what makes sense is that nothing make sense and without Him it would be impossible to bear the uncertainity that any given day may bring.