A pathway back

Tumbling downward, spiraling out of control
lasting only a few minutes is the sensation of
loss; “Come back home,” the wind screams.
“Come back home” – there is nothing to see,
nothing to do but acknowledge the postman as
an employee of us and then you and then who
knows?

But it is the postman with the bag and the long
face of weariness like a razor-sharp tree branch
that offers refuge; not of this world but also not of
the next. Just an offering, like the box at a church,
offering for salvation, saving of the soul with a
small donation of coin that glistens, shines for a
moment.

“Such thoughts,” the aged lady grasping a lizard
of rather large proportions mutters. “You should be
ashamed,” she cries after the passersby ignore her
yet again. They always ignore her. She cares. She
cries. She cries a lot. All the time, actually. It doesn’t
help; more like anguish on steroids. Lying is the only
way.

Can’t stop the clock as it winds down further and further,
winding consistently like a relentless water torture, it
drips and drips and drips. Jump up and take control: That’s
the ticket. Jump up, take control. It’s repetition of the redundant
that affords the greatest plan of attack. Ah, yes, attack
with all your controlled might and may the best man
win.

Jeez! I’m tired to my bone marrow with no excuse other
than to know I’m not you who resides in us all. Not of you
who resides in us all. Not with you who resides in us all.
Not by you who resides in us all. Not even the promise
of you who resides in us all. No, I reside where we all do:
now.

Just now…

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About stevewhitmore

Former award-winning newspaperman and broadcast journalist, both radio and TV, spanning three decades. Army-trained paralegal, court bailiff and prosecutor's lead investigator for the 8th Infantry Division's Judge Advocate General's Corp., Mainz, Germany. 1973-1975.
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