”Stay protected. Stay connected.”
That was his way of saying ”God bless you”. He had a habit of talking about God as if he were talking about the internet. If she was feeling blue, he would tell her to get connected to the world wide web, which meant prayer, or to download something from the server, which meant going to church. Some people called him blasphemous, but she just loved his metaphors.
”Will do”, she replied as she set off on her bike.
They had met at poetry night at the local library a couple of weeks ago. He had recited some of his latest poems and she was there to listen. Not because she had ever heard of him, but because she had a general love for poetry. She wrote poetry too but only for the drawer of her IKEA desk; she never showed them to anyone. After he had finished and was packing his books into his bag, she approached him. Being almost painfully shy, she had never done that sort of thing before, and did not quite know what to say. The first thing she could hink of was to compliment him on the imagery he used. ”It makes the poems come alive. They sort of oscillate mid-air and then land in your heart”, she had said, feeling quite the fool, but he had loved her comment almost as much as she loved his poetry and his way of describing God in a way that made her almost understand – at least she felt that she did – the incomprehensible.
Inspired by The Daily Post: Connected