It is a jar filled. Filled with not so finely folded papers. Tiny, little papers. Not large sheets one would write a letter on. Just scraps. Pieces that had no meaning until the ink of the pen landed upon them. With the meeting of ink to paper, prayers form. Prayers of hope, hope for the future. The prayers of pain, the pain of yesterday, of heartbreak; the fear of tomorrow. Prayers of loss, confusion, uncertainty. Those tiny, once unused pieces of paper now hold the prayers of the young and old; the hopeful and the heartbroken.They are prayers collected. Written, spoken, read in the body language of the sweet souls that have sat across the table from me. From the people I have encountered; the friendships that have been molded.
Collected.
Then nestled in the chair, I pull out each prayer. One by one. And pray for you.
Remember that time we talked, with the coffee stained table between us, cups of tea warming our winter worn hands. You told me about your fears and dreams.
I wrote them down. Each one. Because prayers are not a one person deal. Those little things you told me with a smile spread across your face, those bigs things you whispered to me with a voice shaken by confusion. I wrote them down.
I filled a jar for you. For me. For the loss souls, the broken hearted. And for the young dreamers.
