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Slow Down

Never under estimate the power of the number 115. Particularly not when staring down a temperature gauge.

Had I recognized its intensity, I might not have found myself doing point-ballet from my car to my front door after walking outside barefoot musing, “How bad could it be?”

Rushing toward the minivan’s shadow, eyes on my burning toes, I danced over a resting butterfly. Despite its attempts to flutter away, it barely hovered over the steaming cement.

My heels fell to the ground as I stooped to lift the delicate creature from where it lay nearly paralyzed.

In the cool of our air conditioner, we sat for a while. Drop by drop, it drank from my palm.

Until, finally, it had its fill. And found its peace.

I carried the lightly quivering soul to a flower pot in my garden. Separating the blossoming leaves, I laid it down to rest.

“Slow down,” I almost heard it whisper.

“Slow down. Life is too short for you to be racing.

“Slow down. You are too young to be aching.

“Slow down.”

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