It is such a short journey, life. In moments, one moves from infancy to old age seeminlgly in seconds. Life is but a shooting star. First, you are here, and then you are there. What has happened? Of what consequence? Your mother's breast, then a red wagon perhaps, a playground of sand and swings, a crush on a fair-haired lass, your first kiss, a miss at the ball that goes whizzing by. Which school to attend, which profession to choose, which sweetheart to capture yours, your children suddenly, this city or that one, a house to become your home, springs of hope, summers of heat and trips to mountains or seas, a fall of desiccated leaves, a winter that portends getting old, all in a flash. Highways of success, dead-end alleys of despair and defeat, then finally you meet yourself. Do you say hello, or do you simply walk by? Your love leaves you in death, leaving you only with memories sweet and now still. What has happened? Where did it all go? Who knows but God and the robin high on an oakwood limb.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS