What a Beautiful World

The raindrops drift from the overarching clouds to land like tiny ballerinas, gracefully slipping unnoticed onto the ground that is laced with a sprinkling of tender green grass.

A child sits in a perfectly protected pool of dryness beneath the promise of a willow tree, her small fingers clasping the withered hand of an old man whose final breath is drawing near, as his soul prepares to be carried away on the gentle breeze that underscores the image with a constant reminder that life and death are an equal distance apart.

The old man’s linen suit crumples as his body slumps, riches piled upon metaphorical gold. He stares at the curving landscape and only notices the natural imperfections. The mud that would dirty his great boots, the small rabbit hole down which his life’s savings could fall, and the cold pond capable of drowning the material possessions bought with hours of sweat and tears at other’s expense.

“This world has been unkind to me.” He announces with a voice raspy with cruelty yet ambient with pride. “It has not treated me well and I shall be glad to leave it.”

The child says nothing, only stares at the delicate green of the trees, the vibrant beauty of the sloping landscape and the invitation of cool bliss from the shimmering pond. She closes her eyes and remembers the world of man beyond the cedar tree wood behind her. She remembers the greyscale colours of the street where she used to beg for food every day. The sound of her drunken father lashing his belt at her mother downstairs, knowing that she was next with every thud that echoed on the rapidly collapsing staircase.

A shaft of sunlight escapes the hovering clouds and illuminates a small circle of tulips, dancing among the intricate blades of grass like a choir of kind and gentle hearts, softly praising the joy surrounding them and clasping in their petals the peace that withstands all storms. The spots of unadulterated colour remind her of the smile, given by a teacher who outstretched a hand one winter day and carried her into the warm classroom. The bird, gracefully grazing the edges of a cloud, is like the joy of a warm drink, bought by loving friend who tells her that there is so much she is going to accomplish in her life, so many people who will smile as a result of her calming touch. And the trees stand so tall and strong, it is as if they are fighting for their entitlement to live and love in the world that has been given as a gift to those who will appreciate its true power.

“The world is not harsh.” The child’s voice is soft and warm like a thousand glowing candles. “The world is beautiful.”

The old man’s eyes, clouded by greed and gold, turn to stare at the arching leaves hanging above his vulnerable frame.

“You see this willow tree?” His voice is sad, mourning a terrible grievance that dwells in his heart. “It is weeping, for all of the sorrow in this world.”

The child’s heart shakes, and a lonely tear runs down her pale cheek.

“It is not weeping.” She whispers “It is bowing. Bowing to the beauty that shines all around it.”

With her words, the man’s eyes close. His face turns away from the elegant dance of nature, and his palm, still gripped tightly in the child’s, goes cold.

She sits stiller than the branched arms of the trees, her breath not a beat out of time with the wind.

“Perhaps someday they will understand.” She murmurs into the breeze. “That it not the pain and heartache which defines the life we live. But the peace and love that is always somehow present in such a beautiful world.”