there is a black beetle crawling on the arm of my white chair. very slowly making his way across the lace-impressionist fabric. stopping at bits of interesting things, things that interest beetles, but not kristins. every so often, feeling the hot, upstairs air with his feelers and sensing my body heat and the hum of my laptop mixed in. he's stopped now. one can barely tell him from a little black crumb. he could very well be brownie or coffee cake. i could very well brush him off as easily. but i let him stay, partly out of curiosity, the rest out of pity. how is a beetle to see where he is, such little eyes and feet. a thousand steps can be no more than a few inches.

i imagine God must look at me like i look at the black beetle. letting my stay out of hope and something like pity. she can't see where she it, such little eyes, such little feet. a thousand tears can be no more than a dewdrop. a thousand footsteps are only part of the millions left.