Remember the spaces.

We are sitting in the country somewhere. Watermelon and warm grass. Rolling fields under the bluest of skies, stretched out for miles, as wide as they are high. We catch the slightest scent of smoke- perhaps a grill or bonfire from faraway or maybe our space itself, between the sun, the heat, and the spark between you and I, filled with serenity, and ground, and wild grinning eyes.

I'm often held and rocked in the space of fire and spring, and us in the countryside.

Remember the spaces. The spaces are what count. Always the spaces. Not the answers. Not the destinations. Not the passage of time.