too much of it means you're not living
too little, and it means the same thing

The lavender lilacs line the path that my bare feet tread,
The grass tickling my toes.
Bees buzz among the sunflowers that hang over my head,
They flit around the primrose.
The sun’s rays warm my skin,
And I breathe in the glorious spring air,
Not thinking about where I’ve been.
Just where I am.
At the end of the path is the old wooden swing,
Where she and I would swing for hours,
Each other’s hands we would cling,
While she told me all the different kinds of flowers.
She showed me the hollyhocks and bluebells,
Daisies and buttercups,
And all of the lesser known flowers I have
Long since forgotten.
She laughed when I couldn’t remember
The name of the tulip,
And her soft lips brushed my cheek.
I sit down on the swing and listen to it
Creak as I push off from the ground,
And the memories come rushing back
That are associated with that sound.
Every afternoon spent here,
Every flower name,
I wish I could remember every one,
In my mind they be engraved.
I close my eyes and picture her,
Her circular glasses, golden brown hair falling,
A pencil tucked behind her ear.
The mole on her left cheek.
Even though she’s long gone,
And our kids are all grown up,
She will never be forgotten.
She lives on in her garden.

He's the guy next door....
He's a guy like you and me with warts and worries and unfulfilled dreams.
Yet he stands taller than most of us.
He's a fireman....
A fireman is at once the most fortunate and the least fortunate of men.
He's a man who saves lives because he has seen too much death.
He's a gentle man because he has seen the awesome power of violence out of control.
He's responsive to a child's laughter because his arms have held too many small bodies that will never laugh again....
He doesn't preach the brotherhood of man.
He lives it.

If you think it's tough being a firefighter,
try being a firefighter's wife.

And if you think it's hard being a firefighter's wife,
try being a firefighters daughter