while widows weep by the old Saint Francis a procession of dark drags in red lipstick kick up the dust from Katrina

powdering their twisted faces with narcolepsy and narcotics

laced viagra and voodoo

inside there is a silent hum

of hallelujah and warm bread

stacked in cold cardboard boxes

stained glass and suicide

the pity alters the ions in the air as

the thick fingers of the priest

pull at his collar as he prays

silently and struggles to breathe

choking on the thick hypocrisy

in the hot Louisiana air

the line will end at the red string

and all of the marchers will fall

like the fools they are

and the widows will fix

another seat for the wounded

at the old Saint Francis on State street

Wake up to a hurricane in my gut, don't want to open my eyes, but there's no chance to sleep in as my never ending worries demand attention. My mind races against itself as if the track were a Möbius strip; a never ending loop, balanced between what I should and shouldn't have done, and ending back where I started in the first place. So much to do, so much left unsaid. Internet bill due... damn, I should've said that to her instead... more bills... I forgot to get milk last night... Dishes are still there... Electric bill overdue... Need to shower for work later... My God... So much to do. So much left to say.

Ok... laying here treading water in this stormy sea of thoughts doesn't help anything. I will end up drowning. If it's in the past, it can't be changed. Or, if it hasn't happened yet, worrying doesn't help anything. I rub and open my weary eyes, slowly sit up as my bed pressures me to lay back down. No. If I don't get up now, I never will.

Before I can stand up, I am greeted by my son, who's been watching me from the crack in the door to see if I was awake yet.

"Can you make me pancakes?" Of course my buddy.

"Can you transform my Bumblebee? I forgot how to do it." Ok, one minute please. Followed seconds later with, "Can you help me do this puzzle? It's my favorite." and continuing, "I broke my Optimus Prime, can you please glue it?" Yes. "I saw Lola (our cat) outside chasing the birdies." Cool, did she catch one? "Not yet ... Why do kitties like to chase birdies?" Before I can answer, "Can you make me waffles?" I thought you wanted pancakes??

Every sweet, high-pitched word that leaves his mouth are said with the most pure intentions. Pure unfiltered thoughts and curiosity. I remember when all I wanted was for him to talk, but this morning the words become increasingly piercing to my ears, as if I developed tinnitus overnight. I snap. "Dude! Can you please give me 5 minutes of silence!?"

I immediately flood with regret. Add it to the already overwhelming weight of anxiety. He's only 4, and the word 'silence' is not in his vocabulary yet. I'm a piece of shit.

"I'm sorry, Iroh. I didn't mean to yell at you. Daddy didn't sleep very good, and sometimes daddies just really like when it's quiet for a little bit."

Visually sad eyes respond "ok."

I can't stand myself. He was only waiting patiently for me to wake up so he could talk to his dad. I'm the worst father ever. The best thing I can do next is give him a big hug, kiss on the forehead, and start making his pancakes. Or was it waffles?

Throughout the next 15 minutes of cooking breakfast, my mind cycles through everything I need to do today. Big and small, each one accompanied by its own level of anxiety. Overwhelmed is an understatement as I stare blankly at the bubbly pancake batter on the griddle. I hear from the next room, "Don't burn the pancakes, Dad!" He's too damn smart. Thank you for reminding me buddy. Without his reminder, this batch would have most assuredly been burned. It's the strangest feeling being unable to move from so much going on inside my head.

We sit at the table and eat our breakfast. His questions keep on coming, and I slap a smile on my face and answer to the best of my abilities, simultaneously reminding him to eat his food, as that's my break between the queries. After we're done, I add the plates and utensils to the ever growing stack of dishes, I direct him to the couch and put on one of his favorite shows, "Bluey." I actually enjoy this show, I could watch it without him, and actually have. But I can't watch with him this time. I tell him I need to go outside for a little bit but I will be back. He acknowledges while eyes glued to the screen.

I step outside barefoot. The morning sunlight greets me warmly through the old cottonwood trees standing proudly to my left. Limbs still bare, but I see leaves beginning to bud. The air is still chilly with a slight breeze from the southwest, but it's the sunlight that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. I don't regret being in a t-shirt and boxers. No neighbors around anyway. First order of business is a deep breath. A heavy sigh of relief at the serenity of my front yard. A deep inhale of the smell of spring within the clean mountain air, and an even deeper exhale as if I'm releasing every last worry into the atmosphere.

I love this place. Birds happily singing in the treetops, like they were mocking my cat that she couldn't climb up to get them. I bet she could if she wanted to. She greets me as well, rubs her sun-warmed fur firmly along my legs, and I reach down to stroke her long, peach-colored fur in return. The sounds of her purring, the singing of the birds, the light breeze gliding through the bushes and trees harmoniously making its own original song. As calming as if 'Claire de Lune' were playing.

It's only me here in this present moment. No thoughts intruding on this pleasant solitude. My gaze directed towards the immeasurably big snow-covered mountains straight ahead, but my awareness is more of a floodlight in this moment. My eyes towards the front, but my vision only limited to the farthest extent of my peripheral.

To my left: Budding rose bushes, 15 200-year-old Cottonwoods and Willows, starlings changing branches every few seconds and twittering in conversation with the others. Lola exploring, the sun demanding attention through the trees, and the small town waking up in the distance.

To my right: More trees budding, these ones being younger, and shading my son's swing set. The closest house 2 miles away, blue and standing out from the distant hills and dark green forest. Clouds beginning to take shape against the deep blue sky, as if the owners of that house wanted to match the morning horizon.

All this within my present awareness. All this while staring forward at the mountains, with a clothesline in the foreground, holding the clothes I forgot to bring inside last night, and all the rolling hills and distant trees in between.

I can see every color without moving my head or eyes. Hues of red within our clothes and stained in the rocks and dirt scattered throughout. Orange is my cat, and the shirt hanging that my parents got me from Hawai'i last year. Yellow is the sun. Green is the grass and weeds growing back from winter, as well as the buds on the trees signaling spring. Blue is the sky and house to the west. Indigo is the sky surrounding the sun, a lighter hue than the darker horizon to my right. And Violet is harder to find, but it's there. From my view, the mountains appear violet where the snow doesn't touch. White, black, and grey everywhere else.

This is my peace. This is my happy place: The present moment within nature. When things get too overwhelming, I go outside, whether under the sun, the overcast, or the stars, and I breathe in the quiet serenity of nature that is unbothered by our worldly concerns.

I hear the door open behind me; my son asking what I'm doing. I calmly reply "I'm just getting my quiet time, buddy. I like to listen to the birds and watch Lola. I like to sit here with my feet in the dirt and listen."

Confused, he asks, "why you doing that?"

With a gentle smile I say, "One day you'll learn."

And feeling renewed, we head back inside to sit and watch some Bluey together.

in medias res

April 30, 2024

Such was in the morning

Beholden by obligations and appointments galore

I witnessed the uncommon of beauty

With queries of “art thou” and wherefore”

From my corner office

I saw her see me seeing her

Her forlorn expression

Expressed sans demur

The ball was in my court

I could extend the volley

I could advance toward the net

Becoming a maleficent Svengali

But I chose to remain where my mind should now be

I chose to forsake a future I cannot see

She will forever remain as I see her right now

Forever languishing as regretful somehow

Day 678

April 29, 2024

It is lonely out in space.

The Anfaq Confederacy admired my piloting skills. They did not admire my political opinions. Couple this dichotomy with my severe stubbornness and I am the ideal candidate for long voyage transports.

Thus, I have an indentured contract for a one way haul from Homeworld to Andros-5, in a sublight freighter. My ETA is 30+ years and my cargo is high level radioactive waste that (should) become low level radioactive waste (mostly higher weight transition elements). My bulkheads are sealed as well as my fate. I will spend the majority of my life alone, childless, and (eventually) contaminated. I have a recycler for breathable air, a water reclamator with a few spare parts, and a freezer for recycled food. I can maintain all three with a little skill and a lot of hope. Should I require assistance, I might be able to fix the transmitter.

Then again, I cannot fix the apathy of the people who would need to listen.

In essence, I am persona non grata.

Except on Day 678.

My nav system detected another ship on an intercept course. It was a light raider class, used in the Dacryn Wars. Standard protocol was to answer the hails to identify my point of origin and destination so as to avoid a boarding party search and pillage. Since I have no working transmitter or receiver, I await the inevitable.

The raider pulls adjacent, matches speed, and begins its docking. I stand with my hands in a surrender position awaiting my fate.

I expect the worst to begin in less than a minute.

It is now thirty minutes and there is no boarding party. I keep hearing a tapping on the outer hull. The pattern repeats itself, two taps - pause - three taps - pause - two taps. I could break contact and suffer blaster fire if this is a ruse. Or I could don an EVA suit and meet the party (and my fate) half way.

I opt for the latter and am all the better for it.

Within ten hours, I have Lt. Simmons asleep on my bunk. He was wounded with proximity heavy blaster burns and must have made his escape in the raider. I can balm these with little difficulty. What I cannot treat are the scars from edged weapons and the blunt force trauma (hits/impacts) to his abdomen, legs, and arms.

In essence, Lt. Simmons has seen some combat.

His ship fares a little better.

His nav system works, but is incompatible with mine. His fuel system has failed, but his fuel tanks are full. He has no working transmitter, provisions, or supplies.

If he did not encounter me, he would have died in the ship.

Alone.

The good lieutenant awoke for a hardy meal of recycled carbohydrates, rehydrated in a salt water bath awash with a sprinkle of freeze dried vegetable matter. He thinks it is delicious. So did I on days 1 through 10.

He tells me of his life fighting for the side I was fighting against. He speaks of how things should be and not how they are. He thinks I am a volunteer for the Confederacy.

He is enamored by my circumstance and sacrifice. I am enamored by his build and blue eyes.

My bunk was engineered for one. Perhaps, one day, I will transmit a message to the manufacturer that the bunk's capacity may be doubled under “consensual” circumstances.

I have given birth to three sons, all who died in some war, somewhere. I know when I am pregnant. Today, I will tell Lt. Simmons the good news and the bad news.

First, the good news. I will no longer have to be lonely. Life has a purpose.

Now, the bad news. Life has a purpose only for me.

The good lieutenant is dying from blood poisoning, courtesy the Anfaq Confederacy. Any soldier not in contact with command will be poisoned (most likely from his helmet, through his skin) preventing desertion or imprisonment.

It has been 10 days since he escaped and 10 days with me.

Lt. Simmons is dying fast.

Thus, I salvaged all I could from his raider. I have to think for more than myself. Even if I kept him on my freighter, someone would track my position and notice the error in my navigation. Even a first year cadet could calculate the mass required to make this error. When calculated to be in the range of 50 to 80 kg, first suspicions would be “stowaway”. First corrections would be annihilation.

Lt. Simmons is already dying. There is no need for the two of us to die also.

I gave him just enough fuel to maneuver away from me. He could overload the engines and await what was to come.

I pitched his singular “option” to him at knifepoint (his blaster did not work).

He understood his position. I walked him to the tethered airlock. He asked for a final kiss and received as good as he gave.

He might have given better had the knife not been pressed against his groin.

“What will you name the child?”

“If it is a girl, Misty. If a boy, then Bryan.”

“I like Misty. It is a strong name. Bryan, not so much. Perhaps Edward. That’s my name.”

He leaned close despite my southern hemisphere knife placement.

“Edward it is.”

I watched him enter his raider and disengage from the docking post. His face appeared in the window as I began moving away.

I know a little lip reading, a skill I learned while being a forward observer.

I pointed to myself and mouthed, “Misty”.

As he floated away, I did not see his reply.

In retrospect, It no longer mattered.