I want to hear from you. Something. Anything.

I want to know things from you. Something. Anything.

I want a peep. A bone. A squeak.

I want you to explain why, when we scatter drops from our well of love, the form it takes is called a’ peep’. A ‘bone’. Or a ‘squeak.’ Because those words seem odd. A bit incongruous.

I want to hear from you. Something. Anything.

I know. It is hard to send so much love so far and over so much time. It might not even be possible. I could not carry that much love in my arms, however lovingly and gently I walk towards you and place it in your lap. I would drop some along the way. Little bits and bobs for the sparrows.

I certainly could not deliver it all a peep, a bone or a squeak.

I want to hear from you. Something. Anything.

But, I have little hope. Sitting here in hope does me no good. Hope never brought anyone comfort. Least of all me.

Sure, sometimes it is all you have. It is the thin membrane between something and nothing. Not something, not nothing – that is hope.

I’ll send this peep out into the world. As loudly as I can, and hope you can hear it. And for good measure I’ll throw in a bone too. And a squeak. Possibly two squeaks. I have plenty of squeaks. I’ll even drop some for the sparrows.

It is not hope, mind you. No. Just something to pass the time.

Until I forget about it and move on to other things happening around me. Or until I cease to remember what something I wanted in the first place.

Such change, cycles of closure and openness, is often the nature of things.

That’s something.



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