The day again. Wind chimes and a lawn mower. The wind. A loon call. My daughter trying to get comfortable for a nap on the living room floor. We have been out strolling down the country road, she in the radioflyer wagon, me on the two wide feet of this body. What have I invented today? Toast and jam. Bananas fed to the ants (mother and daughter practicing generosity). What have I thought about? All those people somewhere that I love, have loved. There is always enough to go around. My love for people is the pop can inevitable in the roadside ditch. I can always find one to pick up, carry home, discard of properly. They come and they go, don’t they? Loved ones. Grandpa Bob used to carry a black trash bag when he walked. He gathered the garbage that cluttered up along the city streets, the country roadsides. He pulled the aluminum cans out of bushes and bunches of wild flowers. He picked up candy wrappers discarded by school children. He played a game of vanishing the trash. Let’s just say that this is where he began each day. Walking through the places that he loved, intending to clean the earth with his hands.
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