People count the years
by candles and quiet tears.
The twenties, they say,
are when we wait
for the first cry
from a miracle
just learning to breathe.
But some of us, like me,
never quite grow up.
Peter Pan weeps
each time the rain brushes my shoulders.
I come alive again
only in fleeting moments,
like the string that’s slipped
from a flying kite.
Just days ago,
that child stirred again —
flickering like a candle,
reaching toward her teacher,
a man with nothing
but quiet grace,
yet rich in the kind of ways
that make you believe in yourself.
She longed to share
a small bright win,
a spark like a candle’s tip —
just enough to set a heart aglow
beneath the gaze
that once gave her
presence
when the world turned away.
For the first time,
I wanted to tell
someone —
so fully —
like a child
unafraid to confess,
trusting there’d be
an empty seat,
and eyes that wait.
I once thought,
on the day I might break,
as wax melts
over a birthday cake —
would God have mercy
and let me return
as my teacher’s daughter?
But now I know —
even the most beautiful dream
can turn to dust
if we forget to hold the present
while it’s still here.
Even something lovelier
can still feel
like a passing crush —
picked up with wonder,
and dropped
when wonder fades.
From The Desk Where Mr. C Sat
