In Waiting

Mohala

Illustration: Etsy

One does not search for it, 
it crosses your path somewhere.
Mine arrived at my doorstep–a gift carefully wrapped
yet devoid of fancy ribbon and tag.
I held it close to my heart 
and felt it raw, pure, and real. 
I heard it whisper softly in my ear
Don’t let go.
So I did.
Never counting the hours, days, and years. 
Until it grew two strong wings
And chose to fly–
out of my life,
out of my sight.
How should the story end?
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