Aging thoughtfully makes life better. I like the way the present and memories, the mornings and nights meet and mend. It’s worth investigating. Piecing together. Taking apart. Piecing together again. Like a puzzle that no matter how it’s assembled, makes sense.
Mornings
Dark early mornings standing on the porch. Stars leftover. A sliver moon. Dogs stretching, sniffing the ground, searching for the best place to poop and pee. I scan the sky. Will lights to move. To bring calm. A sense of peace. A wash of big perspective. Like I experienced when I was a kid. Late teens, about to leave the nest and achieve greatness. Absolute certainly I was writing stories that would change the world. No money. No common sense. Only a brain of know-it-all-ness. At 50 now, looking back, I understand I needed that holy white disc and the way it bent space, warped speed, and slowed time. It probably should have beamed me up for a good probing and proper scare, but it didn’t. Instead, it left me feeling small but connected—that I wasn’t alone.
Nights
At night, before bed. Dogs into kennels. Wife and kids gone upstairs. I clean the kitchen, pour a mug of milk. Drink it while eating cookies. Though we live across from a funeral home, our big, old house is quiet. Not a ghost in sight. This is disappointing. With the living and dying that’s taken place here over the past 120 years, there should be mysterious footsteps. Shadows darting by doorways. A lost voice struggling through dimensions to be heard. But it is only me. Standing in the pantry. Not hungry but munching my way to comfort. Crumbs falling down the front of my shirt. Regressing. Filling emptiness with sweets. Or maybe I just enjoy a few cookies before bed. Time will tell, I guess.
~ KJ
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