We have put the ghosts to bed and tucked them in. Alice will climb the stairs and sing them a lullaby and kiss their formless, gossamer foreheads. I will yank the cork from another bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and get a fresh glass from the dusty cupboard. Time is whistling Dixie in the withered leaves of the trees outside the sliding glass door. From a neighbor’s field of old growth conifers our resident owl sings for its supper; hoots religiously, as it does every evening, as if nothing of significance has happened in the world since yesterday to pause its mournful, haunting cries. Ritual can become dogma.
I hear the ghosts turning in their sheets and fluffing-up their pillows. The darkness grows deeper, longer. The cabernet descends as I raise my glass.
There was a time in my life when I considered becoming human, or at least attempting a facsimile. That urge passed quickly.
Winter continues, despite my best effort to ignore it.
My discontent is meaningless, but no less real. I wait.
The only sunshine available is behind my eyes, and I have many anxious seeds.
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