There are occasions holy enough to collapse time.
From the gentle comforts of a winery lunch, step back thirty years or more to an empty-save-two classroom.
Enter invisible to the man erasing the board, the one who still today says your name as if it has meaning.
Kneel beside her, your desperate self with her head down on the front desk, middle row. There is no use touching her; she is impenetrable, frozen, save to impossibilities.
That being the chink in her armor, image into her enough of a glimpse of today to keep her curious.
Let into that forward call beacons from her unknown longings -- wrought-iron shadows, glowing icons, easy banter in conversations of substance. Thus will she recognize the signs, follow the path, trust the unseen ways.
And when those moments touch -- winery to classroom, now to then, when all that once seemed forever away is in fact here -- step back to watch be redeemed all the intertwining days that have served to make this day what it is: proof positive that hopes can be realized, that life is bigger than we know, that we are provided moments to rest in the goodness that prevails.
Or, follow a family to the park.
Let the arrival dwindle the journey. Watch the children take off on their bikes, the parents negotiate their roles of onlooker, caretaker, explorer.
And then, look again at the red line. Someone is shown to be forever there in the red dot, the red pokeboat, the red life-jacket, paddle poised and smile ready.
Mom reaches forward, years past her death, and says hello to me, weeks without breasts, on her way down the river.
Again, moments touch.
Stacked like rocks under a fallen outbuilding, the river flowing by by by since before they were gathered thusly.