Addict

For days--almost a week--he's been clean

of the venom of cannabis smoke in his lungs

or whiskey sliding down his throat, burning his stomach

followed by the delirious high that quickly swells over him.

Right now, clean feels good. Like clean, cool air flowing into his nose

and crystal clear water, cold, from a spring,

drinking it down and feeling no high, just satisfaction from thirst.

He writes endearing messages to his friend. He ponders what could be: a new song, using words from an old Psalm.

He becomes a philosopher, musing on the reason for the common theme of devotion and love in so many

songs, written by so many different people.

It's all there, in everyone. He sees it like the green of spring that shows on every leaf, every blade of grass.

There it is! They all praise, no matter what they confess.

He sees the trail, the fingerprint of the Creator and their common aspiration to praise--God?

Or do they just praise the object of their desires?

He's run out of ambition for now. The fresh air is getting stale. The endorphin has faded. He's tired, discouraged.

His shoulder throbs from a small ball of fire inside. He has nothing but his mind. And his mind quits easily.

Time for a trip to the store for more whiskey.

Driving to Work--Friday

The morning traffic is lighter today, faster, too.

I'm still pressing on the same as the first four days, but others are somewhere else.

Still asleep, waiting to rise before going off to the beach.

Or already gone, off to New England for another last glimpse of orange and red

A few pixels clinging to trees that are now mostly bare.

This drive feels lighter. I enjoy the day off that others are taking.

I breathe easier. Looking forward to leaving an hour early and a weekend.

The placebo of hope makes the day slightly festive, just thinking about it.

It tastes nice, like a hot cup of rich coffee on a chilly morning.

Soon, without traffic, I'm at my exit for the train.

That, too, is less crowded and urgent.

Ease into the weekend.

Cheating the Punishment

My fourth grade teacher finally had enough of my impudence. My punishment: write all of this week's spelling words one hundred times each. At home, my mixture of dread and invention joined forces in a conspiracy of productivity. I would figure out a way to use carbon paper folded in between columns of a sheet of paper so that when I wrote in the first column, the writing would transfer through to four other columns. Secretly, in my bedroom, I folded one sheet of white lined notebook paper after another, with the shiny dark blue carbon paper intertwined in different configurations.  Finally, I got the pattern right! I pressed down with my pen, wrote a word, unfolded the paper, and there, wonderfully, were five columns of words across the top--four of them for free! I wrote several more words until, with a tap on the door, my mom came in. I instinctively shifted from guilt to elation: rather than hide the work-evasion scheme in which I was engaged, I proudly stood up and said "Look! I can write one word and get four more instantly!" Mom was neither excited nor disapproving. Her face showed that she was preoccupied with something far more serious. In a strangely calm and comforting way, she sat down on my bed with me and told me that my sister had just died. She was a Down's kid and had been struggling with a heart condition. Her struggle was over. My scheming to out-smart my teacher seemed trivial and small-minded compared to this.

Halloween

The evening darkness starts to blanket the leaf-covered streets and sidewalks at around 5:00. Bands of children dressed as fairies, Muppets, ghosts, and zombies herd along the walks with parents tagging along behind. They have special privileges on the streets tonight. Cars drive more carefully than usual, easing along, hesitantly, yielding to the costumed youth as they wander across the streets. From one house after another, the make-shift thespians walk up to the front door of a house where they incant "Trick or treat!" From the door, an arm emerges with a basket from which the costumed beggars reach in and extract the candy wrapped in crinkly plastic. Then, each one dutifully says "Thank you!" as parents urge them to retreat and let the next tribe through. They shuffle down  the walkway, rejoin their parents, consult with each other about what they just got, and move on to the next house. Looking down the street, six groups of frightful tricksters generate a sound of children's high-pitched twittering with parents punctuating the noise with reminders to be careful. The shuffling of feet in the leaves, the cool night air, and the smell of leaves and candles inside of pumpkins adorn this curious annual ritual. By seven o'clock, the children seem to have finished and older kids are roaming in twos or threes without parents. By eight o'clock, the rite seems to be over for this year.

Autumn Sleep

In late October, the grass is as green as late spring--it bursts into growth and hungrily drinks in water and food preparing for a long, cold sleep. On top of the grass, leaves blanket the ground. They've departed from their tree that they fed for months. They've done their job, and now they die in the most beautiful display of artful ballet, dancing downward from their perch and landing on the ground with grace, exploding with color. They leave behind space as now the neighboring houses and yards become visible once again. The barrenness of November and the colder, silver air starts to take over. The noisy cat birds are gone. Now, the quiet, patient, longsuffering chickadees, mourning doves and cardinals remain, but without much song. They, too, are busy like the grass, preparing for the approaching cold, barrenness of winter. Winter will come, but what will it be this year? It will be whatever it wants to be, without consultation with others. It may grace the earth with beautiful white snow, or it may spit cold rain and turn everything dreary and gray. It may be silent and cool. No announcement, no signals. Just perfectly reliable in whatever the forces that combine to make it will do. But for now, the air is still pungent with the leaves that are still falling, silently. Until they return again in April!