Each essay is 500 words no more no less.
It is the shooting stardust that you are lucky enough to see.
The dog-tail wag when you walk in the door.
Spring's first tulip, crisp as snap peas.
Warm wind, rustling leaves in trees, a first kiss, strong arms draped around shoulders
like a sparrow's song.
I've found grace by surprise a few times.
In a homeless man on the highway exit ramp
whose ragged, worn face reminded me of...me.
I saw it one day in the downy feathered gosling crossing a busy street, ushered by expanding wings and slapping feet.
It unfolded once in the hand of a small child
who offered me his disintegrating Cheerio.
I found it resting on the face of a dying woman as I kept a bedside vigil.
I've found grace in darker places, too.
Hovering above my crouched and cradled form, hope draining from my body, a severed artery.
It was lying beside me that first night, when the bed was empty on one side.
It was still there: in the gasps of air between choking tears.
Lately grace gently pushes me forward,
helping me slip into my slippers each morning when the covers want to cover my face.
But grace has taken the form of fortune teller today who sees what I cannot:
That I will be okay.
Of the thousands of hours I’ve logged in television consumption during the pandemic, it was the Australian series 800 Words character George Turner that landed a flicker of inspiration. George writes about his life experiences in a column that is always 800 words, no more no less.
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