Tuesday, February 17, 2015


There is a little old man that lives on top of a hill. A massive, steep, I-don't-know-how-he-does-it-when-it-snows hill. He planted sunflowers alongside this hill of his in the summer. Everyday on my way home from work he would be out there weeding, watering, and digging away. And without fail, every time I drove by he looked up, smiled, and waved. I keep telling myself that one of these days I'll pull over and chat a bit. My mother would be concerned, but I can't help it!

It is now February, and the sunflowers are gone. "One of these days" hasn't come around yet. There's something to be said about a feeble old man who toils away relentlessly, despite the obvious difficulties, to grow something so cheerful just because. He gives me hope that I too can do something with what little was given to me that can make others grasp at hope, when all anyone else sees is the red, muddy clay that is a steep useless hill.