Thought Tapestries

What’s a moment you wish you could freeze and live in forever?

The One who Wrote Them all
In the swirl of a question—
“Which moment would you freeze,
and live inside forever?”—
my mind danced with bottles of time,
Jim Croce’s melody lingering,
but the cork would not hold.

I remember my brother, young and bright-eyed,
bursting through the door with a brand-new song
still fresh on his tongue.
He sang it proud, then stopped in disbelief
when I joined in—every word, every note—
his face a perfect circle of wonder
that his big brother already knew this treasure.

I remember my daughter, spider-small,
born too soon into sterile light,
a fragile miracle fighting for breath.
Thirty years later, after heart surgery,
doctors labored through the night
to save the hand they feared they’d lose—
and brought it back to her, whole.

I remember the room gone hollow,
my first wife’s hand cooling in mine,
a voice inside me whispering,
“That’s not her anymore.”
And I remember August sun on skin,
new vows spoken beneath open sky,
a second chance blooming wild and warm.

Each one lives, sharp as splintered glass,
some cut deep, some glow like dawn.
The grief forged the man I became;
the joy still lifts me when the days grow long.

So no—I would not choose.
Not one golden hour, not one shadowed breath.
To live out only one memory
would be to lose the rest,
and I will carry every thread
in the hands of the One who wrote them all,
until the final verse.