Life is filled with ordinary beauty.
The soft gray of a female cardinal swaying on a wind-rustled lilac bush.
A silver moon veiled by clouds ragged and thin as midnight prayers.
Nature offers these gifts freely.
Love carries its own blessings.
This weekend Jack and I strolled the farmers market. An ordinary Saturday. Except that, when your husband has PTSD and what doctor’s call mild dementia, and diabetes, and has had several small strokes, well, a day wandering the market is not to be taken lightly.
We always agree on a place to meet if we get separated. So, when I looked up from admiring a pottery bowl with a Rorschach salmon in its depth and Jack was nowhere to be found, I wasn’t worried. Thirty minutes later, I was concerned. The market is one square block and Jack is six foot tall and was wearing a bright yellow Marine Corp cap.
I found him on my fourth sweep, at the opposite end of the market from our agreed upon meeting place. He was sitting on a bench, looking confused, and clutching a small bouquet of purple flowers. When I spoke his name, he looked up. There hung a long moment while he placed himself and me, remembered where he was, who I was. Then his face lit with a wide smile that lit his eyes. He lifted his arms to present me with the flowers and my heart broke with the usual, ordinary beauty of the moment.