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Monday, December 2, 2013

Victory (?)

Oh, I should leap for this moment, Mother! December has brought her back to me! I should light a ceremonial cigar. I should strip off and crank one off for victory’s sake; an erection is the measure of a man, is it not? Grunt. All bets were off. I know which horse you had your money on. 

You're still just like your father!” 

Not quite...not quite.

There are no bells or balloons-no roaring crowds or piped in music-nothing that I imagined this moment to be. There is no need to run a final lap for show or crack the champagne. And I bear no ill will, my fair lady. 

I grabbed a shack by the lake, leaving my last hope for wife and child’s return in the old crusty house in town. The ghosts had proven too much for me. I surrendered to fate-my meager job and a spot of solitude and safe insulation- four small walls along Erie's shore. I love the water; the unassuming tide tells many tales of her own. She holds the bones of ships other secrets-life taken in many watery ways-cryptic depths ever hungry to contend with man, washed over by stories of survival and perpetual renewal. Spirits linger over timeless churning waves and ancient moonlit sands. The gentle growl of her restless shoreline finds a friend within me. 
      
The big empty still hangs over me and December’s blistering bite cannot shake me from my sleep. She taught me how to die, Mother. She’d given me new life with wedded bliss and buried me again with her sudden, sterile goodbye. Never mind the particulars; running is running. Till death do us part. She taught me how to die. Now she has returned to stir my corpse. I was settling quite nicely into my grave. Now I cannot wake. Or perhaps I simply refuse to wake, knowing the deadly potential of a beating heart. She curls up in my arms like a child returned to safety, like a prodigal lover, a hungry pup. I fetch myself a coffee, her a cocoa. I drink quickly and slip under the covers, draping lazy limbs across her. I offer her a faint smile as I play in the vast and vacant field of my mind awhile. 
     
The bigger irony of it all, of this book, of these carefully crafted letters, oh the irony-that I thought I could wake you, giver of my life! You are long passed, old ghost! I should have known! What was I thinking? Oh curse me! Oh laugh now Mother! I stepped out over the deep and tried you reel you in, as heavy as you are in so many ways. And perhaps just as you, I don't wish to be disturbed any longer either-yet still I poke and prod to find you in the dark waters and pull you to the shore. 

Close the book if you wish. But something tells me you won’t. And something tells me I’ll not let her leave again.



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