Handsome, young man in a handsome, grey suit,
No tie, open collar, hands in pockets…business casual.
Elevator takes us to the same floor, him and me.
“Are you one of our guests?” I query.
“I am here to meet with ________ __________.” (I think that is our CEO)
“Ah,” says I. “It’s a good day for a meeting.”
“Why do you say that?” he asks, finally looking at me, no smile.
I grin, door opens, we move to our respective corners…
And it was a good day, all in all.
Julie took the blue for her Bloody Mary pickles!
Max, for a watercolor painting!
Ryan for her poem about the color pink!
The Gonzales trifecta hit the Denver County Fair without mercy!
They all take first place in my heart!
Looking back over the last year or so, I realize how I slowly, but surely withdrew, shut down, lost interest, raged. Yes, yes, it was all reasonable, diagnosed, to be expected. The wallowing in my own misery was fine, okay; no shame in it; understandable… Yadda yadda yadda…
Please do not rub my back again. I really do not like being touched. Please stop being empathetic. Expect me to handle it, damn it! Expect more of me. Expect me to rise! Rise, rise, rise.
People sicken. People die. Hearts break. Fear of more heartbreak engulfs, stifles. Yes, yes, yes.
People age. Employers hire and fire, with impunity. Rage, rage, rage.
“That’s life, Kid.” “This too shall pass.” Stop wasting time: Get back in the game! Cheer! Cheer! Cheer!
Finally, at last, I tire of it – the misery. I choose to turn my head to the garden, the sky, the giggle of my grands, good food, books; my cute little Mini with its pink fuzzy dice and its magic “sport” button.
Ye writers have worked your magic; sustained me through my personal exile by merely continuing your personal ventures. Thank you. Me thinks I am set to get back to the tale twisting in my brain; to put pen to paper, keyboard to screen.
“Huzzah!”, says the young script writer with whom I work daily. “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”