The temperature is just above freezing but the sunshine feels as good as a lover’s touch. This old comfortable bench is where my wife sits in our yard to smoke and seek relief from the physical pain of a weakened spine.
Birds come and go at the feeder while quail and doves prowl the ground for dropped seed. They sing through their struggle that seems to never end.
Traffic noise invades from the always busy roads below and above. (Is there no escape from the freedom lie of automobiles?)
Maybe this is the best place on Earth for us. Our own yard and garden where we have toiled and played with children and talked with guests and each other and sat and felt the origins of us.
You can make me your president
and I will destroy you.
You know that is what you want.
You are weak and afraid and bored with these feelings.
So give me the power to make it all happen as you know it will,
it must, so let me get it over with.
I am the clown you want to kick.
Follow me over the edge.
You know where you want to be.
It must end. Choose me and I will pull the change you dread from your swollen, sour gut and shove it down your throat.
The laughter on his sixth birthday, and the unspoken “where” for those missing.
Again and again: Not your fault.
The anger of tantrums.
Peanut butter and jelly toast sans crust.
Homework. Emergency room visits. Catch in the yard.
First and last days of school and holiday shows.
Morning breath when he just wants hugs.
Dog day boredom and stupid videos.
The day he will forgive