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No Big Thing

Another Sunday story (aka poem).

This one has been told to me so many times, too many.

It was no big thing

but all of the small ones

piles upon piles of thin regret

forgotten words hanging so low

and the ones they couldn’t forget too

uttered softly but landing hard and full of pain.

They wonder if

they can come undone

over nothing big enough

only jagged parts made of

misplaced steps and carelessness

with no betrayal so hot they turn to dust.

And it seems they can

because small pieces are

like pebbles inside the heart

that roll around and poke at them

until one day that burden is all they feel

and gentle love is crushed beneath the weight.

Tears fall

hard and fast

when finally they notice

this brokenness scattered like

debris they must avoid with their

bare feet and hearts and souls too.

It’s so hard

they scream to

the persistent whisper

who tells them there is no more

that this is all there is for any of us

fractures inside the body that poke and crush.

They can

go on this way

letting it all pass by

pale and empty and less

than they vowed to be for each other

resignation filling every single breath.

Or be brave enough

to take out their hopes

and present them as gifts to

be gently unearthed and considered

even amidst all of the angst and doubt

trusting in the peace that comes from letting go.

Because love remains and everything else is no big thing.

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