Words. We write words to express the feelings and depth of a person or people within the pages of a book. As we press a key on the keyboard, the computer magically presents each letter on the screen.
So much is said about words. Time for a writer is, or could be, money. No words-no product-no paycheck. But this weekend words took another, and I feel greater, meaning. A meaning that has more to do with the words that are not said and never need to be said.
I watched a groom dance with his mother at his wedding. Yes, I know, that happens at almost every wedding. This one, however, was special. And one I hope I will never forget.
The groom, whom I had just met that evening, was dancing with his mother; a woman I had never met. She was obviously thin and frail and almost void of expression. I was apparent that she was ill. The song, "You Lift Me Up," sung by Josh Groban was played by the DJ as the two moved slowly on the dance floor. Words were passed between the two; words no one heard or needed to hear. The words were for their ears alone.
Eyes everywhere in the reception hall could not leave the couple as they danced. Not one of those eyes were dry. For so many of the people there, unaware or aware of the mother's terminal condition, no words needed to be heard. No words needed to be said. The son was dancing with his mother who has five to six weeks to live. Every word that needed to be said, written, whispered or heard was said by the closeness of the two on the dance floor. And a book was filled without words, but instead, with one short dance.
So much is said about words. Time for a writer is, or could be, money. No words-no product-no paycheck. But this weekend words took another, and I feel greater, meaning. A meaning that has more to do with the words that are not said and never need to be said.
I watched a groom dance with his mother at his wedding. Yes, I know, that happens at almost every wedding. This one, however, was special. And one I hope I will never forget.
The groom, whom I had just met that evening, was dancing with his mother; a woman I had never met. She was obviously thin and frail and almost void of expression. I was apparent that she was ill. The song, "You Lift Me Up," sung by Josh Groban was played by the DJ as the two moved slowly on the dance floor. Words were passed between the two; words no one heard or needed to hear. The words were for their ears alone.
Eyes everywhere in the reception hall could not leave the couple as they danced. Not one of those eyes were dry. For so many of the people there, unaware or aware of the mother's terminal condition, no words needed to be heard. No words needed to be said. The son was dancing with his mother who has five to six weeks to live. Every word that needed to be said, written, whispered or heard was said by the closeness of the two on the dance floor. And a book was filled without words, but instead, with one short dance.