handwriting

The expression sometimes seems sad, yet remains beautiful, artful—soon maturing, then brightening into a smile, guiding the rest of your features along.

Those eyes, for instance: so changeable, yet always expressive—watchful, curious, deep—poorly concealing such gifts from an attentive gaze. It was only a matter of beginning.

Once set in motion, even slowly, even with missteps, the path unfolded—not so badly, after all.

And there was tenderness in seeing those words take shape, after so many years, after forgetting what could still be felt.

Something new—yet carrying the gears of an old machine, left aside so long it had nearly been forgotten.

New words were sifted through, one by one, echoing, steady—or nearly so.

As they once had, though now more slowly, marred perhaps by a stubborn, clumsy hand, a faltering script demanding care—perhaps the price of age, or of dulling technologies, once unthinkable, now relentless.