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The sun breaking through the clouds had teased warmth, but it’s colder than it looks when I get out of my car. I pull my hooded sweatshirt over my head to push back the cold and bend to loop my key in my shoelaces.

Only a few hours ago, the area drank in a splash of rain, and now it seems to be sighing in contentment. Little beads of raindrops give blades of grass a brilliance previously muted with drought.

The trail through the park is a sticky slide of mud, layered with yellowed leaves that have wiggled into the tacky mess. A slug lazily stretches across the blanket they have patched together for him.

I duck under a tree that has spread its branches horizontally over the path, so that the tips rest on the ground. It as if it has lost the strength to hold those branches upright. Instead, it pulls a moss blanket over its trunk and rests.

I feel the weight of solitude without feeling alone.

The hills are a tapestry of green fringe, rolling effortlessly into the horizon. Above, a feather of clouds lace a sky that is the babiest of blues. The breeze carries the pungent scent of mud and leaves and oak. With each breath, I feel life filling my lungs.

A few days ago, I prayed for God to romance me. As love stories are scrawled all around me in elegant script, mine has remained quietly unwritten. That silence can be painful, especially when it comes from God. So I asked him for a token, really. Anything.

He knows the way to my heart.

This, I think as I crest another hill alive with moss and birds and rays of sunshine through raindrop prisms, is romance.


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