Out to the driveway to the camper in my pajamas to drink a little wine and string together letters—one key at a time—in an attempt to unify wants and needs, desires, expectations, roles and fears and distractions, so I can strip away the layers, minimize this big existence by focusing on the stars and planets that twinkle with possibility so close, but so far away for you, for me, for everybody.
Kids are throwing grenades in the Middle East.
Islanders are drinking rum in the Caribbean.
An old woman in a care home simmers shamefully in her very first pair of adult diapers.
Across the state, my baby nephew smiles, kicks his legs, watches the multi-colored mobile that turns above his crib, and is happy to move and coo and drool as day moves him to closer to another nighttime feeding from mom.
Twenty feet away, my wife sits in the living room. There is a warm fire solid with orange coals that will last as long as she feeds it. The kids are asleep. Teetering on the edge of dreams. And I’ve stuck myself out here in the cold because I want to believe we can rise above our fear of evil and poverty and gods and guns and money and sex and death and the big silent unknown that’s working its way toward us one tick at a time.
Your day is coming as is mine, so maybe it’s best not to get too serious like this. It is, after all, a Sunday night. There’s only a few hours before the workweek begins and if I think too much about every instance that connects us I’ll forget the importance of this small life in this small town with my pretty wife and kids and there’s a very good chance I’ll get nowhere with this—drinking a little wine, one key at a time—in hopes of bringing the stars a little closer for you, for me, for everybody.