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I wonder at the weight of a Sparrow.

Mary E. Pearson

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Mary E. Pearson
Age: 69
Born: 1955
Born: August 14
Teacher
Writer
SoCal
Mary E. Pearson
M.E. Pearson
Wonder
Sparrow
Sparrows
Weight

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A single gentle rain makes the grass many shades greener. So our prospects brighten . . .
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Picture yourself five years from now. Where do you want to be? Remember that. Every day. That's how you'll get there.
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Father says it will come in time. “Time heals,” he says. I don’t tell him that I don’t know what time is.
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One small changed family doesn't calculate into a world that has been spinning for a billion years. But one small change makes the world spin differently in a billion ways for one family.
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Whatever you choose for your stationery is your favorite color because it's where you pour your heart out.
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I don't want five hundred billion neural chips. I want guts.
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My timing is off. But I had to get it out. Some things you have to tell, no matter how stupid they may sound. Some things you can't save for later. There might not be a later.
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it is amazin, she thinks, how simple appearances can be created - a rush, a smile, a new coat of paint, a slow, calm voice, a hug, a new dress - a resolve to keep out questions and cling to secrets
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I think that maybe forgiveness is like change - it comes in small steps. (256)
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Boredom reigns on all levels. The rain is a welcome change. I have seen the pond swell and the creek surge. I press my palm against the glass, imagining the drops on my skin, imagining where they started out, where they will go, feeling them like a river, rushing, combining, becoming something greater than how they started out.
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What I think is all I have left. My mind is the only thing that makes me different from a fancy toaster. What we think does matter-it's all we truly have.
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On a small planet, where minute follows minute, day follows day, year follows year, where tradition marches on with a deafening, orderly beat -sometimes the order is disturbed by a dreamer, an artist, a scribbler - sometimes the beat is changed one person at a time.
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Words have longer lives than people.
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I still cry on waking. I'm not sure why. I feel nothing. Nothing I can name, anyway. It's like breathing - something that happens over which I have no control. (6)
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Multiple closets for different needs. Overkill.
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...and time becomes a forgotten detail.
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Maybe we all have a dark place inside of us, a place where dark thoughts and darker dreams live, but it doesn't have to become who we are.
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I used to be someone.
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Pieces. Isn't that what all of life is anyway? Shards. Bits. Moments. Am I less because I have fewer, or do the few I have mean more?
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When you are perfect, is there anywhere else to go?
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