back into the future. or is it the past. you step from one world into another. leaving behind what you know and stepping into what you do and don’t. sent on the prayer of the faithful. ushered, nudged, even pushed by hands that can touch softly but are calloused and strengthened by work.

the world is a mix of sound and colour. the day is a blend of food and drink. the night is a carefully folded piece of newsprint that circulates between one hand to another, is recycled, reprinted and circulated again.

three new voices fill the silence and then disappear. a stranger smiles. the ocean the carpet below you, sure to scrape and skin your knees if you fall while you barrel down the corridor, push off and glide, defy the law of gravity to time travel.

grace can be as simple as lending your pen, using your voice to ask for a cup of water, quieting to a whisper so the tired world can sleep.

while it does, you spread the time out flat, knead and coax it like dough, roll the thoughts, the memories so they are flat and tamed, spread thin enough to cut, fill, layer, then bake with meaning.

you need a little heat. the leaven will work its way through. this thing you hold in your hand will brown, rise, shape. you’ll wipe the flour from your hands on your apron, clean and wash. hum under your breath until the timer rings.

if God allows you’ll sleep. enter an agreement with mystery so cells can rebuild cells, the land can separate from the see, light from darkness. and you can dream. your mind the bucket lowered into the deep well, dropped and sinking, pulled back by some unseen hand to the waking world, edged by concrete and leafy greens. filled again, to be poured out for another day.