I took the time to again visit The Little Prince. As I grieved for him again. I remembered a young boy, reaching out to touch a hand many years ago. I was a new nurse. It was the first time I had attended a Hospice patient at the end. It was done. Her family was saying good-bye, and like the Little Prince he remembered his lessons. It was the shell of his Granny, for it had gotten too heavy to go where she had to go. Years later a friends child let go of his own shell. I remember it. And like the Little Prince he to let go of his shell. And my Paw-Paw who tended his Roses and his friend, the Fox, they all let go of their shells. And I have been left to grieve because that is the job of those who are tamed by love. Thank you Little Prince for reminding me of that beautiful lesson.

Sometimes writers don’t know why we write. At the heart of all my dreams is to write a story, my story, that touches like the Little Prince. But I am afraid. Because to do that I have to let go, to stop thinking as an adult, to see the simple truths, and simply be. I read the story and heard a series of philosophy lectures, days of sermons, and nights of rituals in a few minutes with one profound story. I am not that brave yet.

Thank you for being that brave.

And if you have never visited with The Little Prince. He lives in the laughter of the stars.

((The Little Prince (French: Le Petit Prince) by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry))

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