There are stories in the quiet of a face,
Not loud ones —
But the kind that sit comfortably beside a warm evening fire
Or hum softly from an old record player.
There are journeys in the background, too —
Paths winding through hills not yet walked,
Books waiting with patient pages,
Strings on a guitar remembering songs
Even when the room is still.
A friendly dog waits at the edge of the day,
Certain that tomorrow will bring
Another adventure worth wagging about.
Glasses are raised to laughter,
Meals promise conversation,
And somewhere beyond the frame
A story is always being written.
Because a life well-lived is rarely just one thing —
It is music and memory,
Curiosity and comfort,
A hundred small joys gathered together
Like familiar objects on a well-loved shelf.
And in the middle of it all
Stands the storyteller,
Quietly collecting moments
Worth keeping.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 