Golden

Water has such soft sounding music, like a lullaby that you just can’t remember. Soft metal leaves curl toward the ceiling, and real wood is much more like stern steel than greenery. Lights and banners are there if you want them, but don’t try to grab their attention. Wheat sheaves would describe this so much better than I can, except they don’t like talking as much as I do. Rock and stone can be yielding, as long as you find the right color. Peaceful sunlight can do that to you. Afternoon began as such a leftover word, but now it has charm and grace, especially the golden ones. Nothing can compare to candlelight where it isn’t really needed, except for warmth. I know you understand, because that understanding smile is as golden as the afternoon light that playfully teases and chases the dust motes that dance behind stained glass. I have known very few people that could be called golden, which makes them just that more precious to me. And right after that, my friends forget how wonderful summer is until it’s really there, warm and refreshing and beautiful. They forget what real love is. Because love isn’t excessive or obsessive, it’s not something you read on a loose t-shirt, it’s not thick and hot and complicated. Love is something you feel when you can’t quite meet his eyes, but you’re smiling all the same. Love isn’t midnight and sneaking around, pretending to be excited. Love is something you feel when you get out of bed way too early and clean the kitchen, and then make breakfast for your parents. Love isn’t just for boyfriends and girlfriends; as a matter of fact, that kind of love is the least admirable. Real love is two old people walking down the street, hand in hand, quietly accepting each other as they have done for the past few decades. True love is long lived, and golden.