Really, it’s a lie when we compliment after passed years, say someone is exactly the same. I suppose what we’re wanting to say is that the essence of you — the unique spark of you — is intact. The one we recognized then, the one we see now.
But aren’t we always changing even as we keep on at the same things? Endless loops working their way out into lines, twists and turns, loose threads that we hold out in cupped hands. Never really the same.
I look in her dark brown eyes and watch the turn of her mouth as she talks of faltering and failing and trusting, loneliness and clinging, and I see her, and I see me, too. How we are the same.
I consider refugees fleeing with only their children and the day’s clothes and all those mourning this day. How tragically different those lives are from my own, and yet we dwell under the same sky.
Light shifting baby to royal, unknown storming in, love and loss clouds streaking with long ago dreams.
I remember our fashioning that is the same. Same uniting of bodies, cells. Souls placed within, deep that calls unto deep.
From the beginning, newborn eyes search for holy assurance outside the womb — where the cord linked to the blood of another life — that we are not so suddenly all alone. Eyes locking. You see me. We are same.
I walk the edge of the river. See gray after gray rock, and yet one I reach to pick up. Different calling out among the same. I let it rest in my palm, make it uniquely warm by my touch.