Unseen hands hold us, heal our wounds, and sometimes unseen hands have a voice that whispers comforting ease to our chaotic thoughts.
Unseen hands hold a place for time to make right the wrongs that are out of time.
We left a rutted parking lot, inside the cab we tossed like dolls.
Suddenly traffic was solid, bumper to bumper, four lanes full moving at 40 ish miles an hour.
On a Friday at supper time, with perhaps too much speed, we made our way. Gravel spewing, lurching along among other drivers and their vehicles.
We drove a mere one and a quarter mile distance. Four lanes became five and twenty-nine business with entrances and exits, demanded our attention, a few sudden stops and starts. Inside our vehicle we spoke pay day talk, what to get for supper, and gratitude that we could have supper.
At last we arrived at our favorite steakhouse.
When we stepped from the vehicle, I saw them resting, where, in absent mind, I had earlier placed them.
Abbey of Gratitude 