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There Always is Tomorrow


Little waves dancing inward across English Bay, driven by a westerly wind slowly fading into another night, or perhaps by an incoming tide, lap at the toes of my scuffed running shoes, seep in through cracks and crevices of the rubber fringe meant to keep my feet dry. In reality, wet feet are not such a bad thing, after all, they and my socks are in desperate need of a good washing. If I only had little soap, I could do a proper job.

Eyes, eyes weary from too many sleepless nights, scan the glinting water that stretches out from the sandy beach where I stand, out, out, out towards the far horizon, and for a moment my imagination travels thousands of miles across the rolling Pacific, past Hawaii, past the Marshall Islands, past Japan, to the mysterious shores of China. I think, no, I hope, that an oriental beauty, with seductive eyes, and a voice that angels might envy stands on the opposite shore, calling out to me. But the hope fades, and the taste of sea air on my tongue, the tangy odor of salt in my nose drags me back to the reality of the day.

My gaze settles onto a little red boat skipping across the sea. Blue sails puffing out with every breath of wind, tug the craft, and the intrepid captain towards home port. The cry of gulls tilts my head upwards, and I watch the grey, the white birds wheel, dart, and dive amidst the darkening sky.

At last, at long, long last the moment I have been waiting for, the moment I wait for almost every evening arrives. I hold my breath as the edge of the sun touches the surface of the sea, setting the far horizon on fire. Purple, pink, mauve, and shades of red that only a painter can imagine streak through the gathering clouds. But the moment fades as quick as it began, until only a few dying embers glow upon the waves.

It will be night soon. I do not wish to leave this magic, enchanting place, but the dark clouds piling up like mountains promise a storm, and before it begins, I wish to be safe under my bower. A stately Douglas Fir, green, and rich, with a fresh clean scent. A tree that dug its roots deep into the bones of the earth a long time before I was born, perhaps hundreds of years before white man marred these shore with their footprints, reaches towards the sun, the moon, and the stars, with bows thicker than my waist. It is my friend, my father confessor, my home away from home, and this night like many other nights it will keep me dry.

I hurry along the path that wanders past Lost Lagoon. Any other time I would sit on the pale green bench, wait until the moon filled the world with a soft silvery brilliance, wait until scintillating stars covered the heavens with their glory, wait until swans and geese glided past my resting place on calm waters, scarcely leaving a ripple behind. But not tonight, for there is a storm coming.

Another day has receded into my memory, but no matter how dark the night, no matter how wild and cold the howling wind may grow, like all other things these too shall pass, and even though the light has faded, hope, strong and resilient fills my heart, because I know there always is tomorrow.

My footsteps quicken as my home comes into sight, and like a flash of lightning a poem floods my mind.

Do not fear the gathering storm,
or this dark and wild night,
for another day shall soon dawn,
filled with many promises bright.

Do not let hope be chased away
by the might of a growling wind,
your future will not be engraved in stone,
until your last day has come to its end.

So do not weep this night through.
Do not give into bitter sorrow.
Let your heart be filled with joy,
because for now there is tomorrow.

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