St. Beloved Writing

It was in the silence, or near silence that she thought too much. Thinking about the past, About a thousand things she’s already thought about. But all her memories now just kind of hurt Every corner, filled with something  she didn’t want to remember or wanted to and couldn’t. She would breath hard when she hiked. But didn’t seem to mind it, being alone She liked the pain, the push. Feeling herself and the wind,  Carve through her and the aspens like one in the same atop a growing mountain. First she thought about someone unmentionable,  though she’d told herself all too many time she didn’t care anymore,  even she knew she was lying. The right songs and sounds triggered a cascade of memories; Blonde curly hair dripping with the water of all those summer trips to the river. Something that would never feel right again. Empty promises left unkempt. Then Africa; the heat, the drums, the dust and the eyes, so many beautiful eyes. There was too much to put into words, To...

            1. His hands effortlessly grazed across the strings of the guitar, plucking out chords of melancholy. There was a look on his face both careless and intent . He’d closed his eyes, his hands would do his seeing now. A small crowd began to gather around, unintentionally swaying with the melody like palm trees in the wind. A couple people tossed small coins into the case at his feet and you could hear the light, clinging as they piled. He paid no attention to the whispers, cash or camera flashes, consumed with his passions. 2. The guitar sat in the corner of the living room, gathering dust like the decorative plates in the vanity beside it. Pictures spattered the walls of a time when things here were much different. Framed moments of a man playing what has now become an antique and a family gathered around in what one could best describe as a cherished memory. All now gathering dust on pink wallpapered walls and doily lined tables. An elder...

          Usually at home we'd have a bouquet of flowers sitting on the counter. Mom was never the gardening or romantic type but she appreciated the gesture. Reasonably the flowers served little to no real purpose, it was just a gift to have. “It's the thought that counts”, kind of thing. Once while serving as a missionary in Africa I found myself in the middle of the conversation of two Elders (young men also serving as missionaries), they were semi-jokingly arguing back and forth on whether “the thought” really did count. The smaller Elder argued ruthlessly as the devil's advocate, pointing out that on a literal and temporally level, “the thought” counted for absolutely nothing. Meanwhile the tall Elder helplessly tried defending the idea but fell short in comparison to the small Elders persistent retorts. Now on a philosophical level, it was like a utilitarian arguing with Kant; they really weren't getting anywhere. After a while I decided it was time...