"...I trusted in the Almighty… I knew I could only be killed once,
and I had to die sometime."
-Anne Bailey, 1823

Sunday, July 18

that of which I am made

July 18. perhaps 'tis the heat which has caused us to slow down for a few moments of quiet contemplation, for not much else can one do without fear of collapse on days such as these.

Thoughts of days past, family and dear friends fill my mind. Thankful am I to grandfathers who taught us well, grandmothers who loved us much, to aunts and uncles, and to friends; all those who choose us over others... For these fine things and more, we are mightily blessed.

My eyes linger over a map, a bit of silver, a black arm band worn in time of loss, flowers gathered by tiny hands, letters writ betwixt friends and loves. These small pieces of life have such meaning to one, yet nothing to another. For without knowing its story, each piece is but another bit of useless stuff. Yet 'tis this useless stuffing of which I am made.