I have no idea where I am going with this except to say that I’m a sucker for a good documentary and I watched one yesterday. In fact, the one I watched was so good for someone with my upbringing that I feel compelled to complete the circle, and to document it in turn.

I stumbled across “In the Blink of an Eye” on Prime Video and started watching it with low hopes, but it did what good documentaries do, pulling me in, tickling my memory back to one of the passions of my youth; a passion which, as happened with Christmas at an even younger age, had its glory stolen away by the money grab of commercialism.

Those of you who know anything about me from my time here on site know that I am a redneck sprung from rednecks. I do not say this proudly, although I could. It is simply fact. And being a redneck, I like automobile racing (at least I did, once upon a time). In particular I like southern stock car racing. Like me, NASCAR sprung up from the red clay of our shared southern home; a heavy, sticky soil that packs out smooth and hard as hawked-out cement until it is perfectly suited to race cars on. So they did just that, those good ol’ boys of another era who came home from WWII having gained the three things required to create the perfect twister of a red-dust storm; mechanical knowledge, engineering experience, and a lust for excitement.

I vividly remember my first time at a race track. My father took me out to East-Side Speedway one night around 1970, when I was still small enough to be toted in his arms late at night. I remember the glow of the lights in the distance from where we parked, the roaring of cars which could not yet be seen, the anxiousness in my dad’s step to get those cars into view. I remember the roughness of the wooden bleachers beneath my bare feet, the glimmer of the lights off the whirling metal, the smells of wetted dust, burning high-test, popping corn and suspense. It was only small-time, small town racing, but it was sprinkled liberally with the magic dust of Grand National dreams.

A couple of years after that night, and right after the divorce, the old man called up my mother one Friday and asked if he could take me with him up to Martinsville, to see the “big boys” race. Caught quick like that and without an excuse handy Mom said yes. That weekend was the highlight of my childhood; camping out in the back of Pop’s pickup truck and joining in frisbee games where fifty-or-so Blue Ribbon and Marlboro toting fathers gathered in an outside circle throwing a bunch of frisbees across to each other while their screeching flock of kids in the middle happily chased down, and tussled over, any wayward throws (myself right in there with ’em). There were banjos picking over in that direction, and race cars roaring in the other, colorful flags flying on high with a blimp slow-rolling against the clouds, and best of all Richard Petty was right yonder; King Richard we called him, a sparse man sporting a big hat beside a sky-blue race car any of the three of which… man, hat or car… were already larger than life. It couldn’t possibly get any better for an eleven year old, yet it did. After that weekend followed Bristol, Rockingham, and finally Charlotte, the crown jewel of racing. What a summer!

You have to keep in mind that this was all pre-1979, when began an unquenchable thirst throughout America for all things NASCAR. Prior to 1979 Winston Cup racing was little more than a southern joke. The races were held in the south, the drivers were from the south, and there was little to no television coverage (the Daytona 500 being the lone exception as a once a year novelty event on ABC’s “Wide World of Sports”). The Daytona 500 is unique in that it is equivalent to NASCAR’s “Super Bowl”, but it is strangely held as the first race of the season, rather than the last. They run it first, in late February, because Daytona is usually warm then while the rest of America is still frozen. This was especially the case in 1979, as a gigantic snowstorm had settled over most of the east coast, forcing people inside on a Sunday afternoon, and this after the NFL season had ended and before baseball season had begun… the horror! With no other sport available for bored men to watch on an inside day they tuned into the Daytona 500, and those bored men were coincidentally treated to the greatest race in NASCAR history. For stock car racing, that snowstorm turned out to be the perfect storm, as a fantastic race culminated in a last lap crash, allowing NASCAR’s only nationally recognized name, Richard Petty, to sweep through to the checkered flag. And better yet, immediately after Petty flashed across the finish line in his famous STP branded racer the cameras panned back to the wreck where two drivers were fist fighting in the infield, and still another driver had leapt out of his car to come to the aid of his brother, the three of them throwing haymakers until the service trucks could get there to pull them apart! It was glorious, this two on one melee after a fantastic race with millions of first time viewers! It was the perfect storm indeed for a second rate sport, as fans from all over America began heading down south to watch those crazy-assed southerners race their hot rods. It was the height of happiness for me to see the rest of the country embracing my favorite sport!

For a while, at least.

Then my happy bubble burst. Mom moved us further away from Dad. Worse, she moved us to the city. Trips to race tracks ended for me. City life and time changed my priorities, as will happen, turning me away from “out of sight, out of mind race cars,” and toward girls, rock-n-roll, and a car of my own. But then came cable television. ESPN and TBS began showing races nearly every weekend. I found myself drawn back in by the ’84 Firecracker 400, hearing Ronald Reagan issue the “Gentlemen, start your engines” command from a phone in Air Force 1, and then seeing in real time, albeit on television, the image made famous by Sports Illustrated of Air Force 1 cruising in to land with that iconic STP car in the foreground, racing alone down Daytona’s backstretch. It was not my luck to be able to go to the races anymore, but I’ll be damned if racing wasn’t reaching out to me and pulling me back in, or so it seemed at the time.

A few years later my buddy Dave and I got us a place down at the beach. Dave laughed at me on those hot summer afternoons when I‘d hop on my ”beach cruiser” to pedal back up to our 17th Street apartment in time to catch my heroes on TV. My asshole friend would yell, “go on then, you hillbilly fuck” as I flipped him off on my way. The bikini-clad tourists could wait, I figured. Girls would always be there, but Talledega only came around twice a year. I guess those priorities hadn’t completely changed.

I will admit to being a little bit ass-hurt when my friend called me a “hillbilly fuck,“ so I did the only thing I could do. I loaded up my truck with beer and weed, shoved Dave into the passenger seat, and I converted him; two long-hairs in cut-off shorts and Van Halen t-shirts on a NASCAR roadtrip. What a fucking blast we had! I’ll never forget the joy on his face that entire weekend. We’d been to a lot of rock and roll shows, but there is a huge and obvious difference between 18,000 headbangers at a one-night stand, and 80,000 redneck wall-bangers rockin’ a racetrack for an entire weekend. Upon arrival Dave completely bought in to the laid-back party style of it (in particular to a group of redneck girls we came across as they bathed boldly shirtless in the dangerous southern sun, Dave kindly offering to shade them with his own naked body at much hazard). And to my chagrin he also bought in to the whole “Intimidator”, “Man in Black” thing, and so became a Dale Earnhardt fan (plus he knew I hated the driver whom many fans, myself included, referred to as Ironhead, rather than Earnhardt. You have to keep in mind that Dave was, as most maturing young men are with each other, a real butt-wipe).

Our front-stretch seats for that race were low down in the stands, a bit close to the track for comfort’s sake, but perfect to hear the sounds, sense the speed, and to get caught up in the drama of it all. Dave remained skeptical of the actual racing right up through the warm-up laps, looking at me like I was an idiot when I warned him that he’d best take off his brand new Earnhardt cap before they came around again or he would lose it. You see, it takes a minute at a track like Charlotte for speed to accumulate. Heavyweight American muscle doesn’t zip off the line like a sissy little European racer does. It gathers it’s momentum slowly, needing every bit of the mile-and-a-half, high banked speedway with the dog-leg rounding out it’s start-finish line to get it’s gears sorted out. Once that space and speed is gathered however, watch the hell out!

That first lap circled about like slow motion. I looked over, unsurprised by a cynicism on Dave’s face which only made me laugh, as I knew what was to come. Like two trains vying for supremacy the twin lines of cars drove away from us down the backstretch, circling bumper-to-bumper and side-by-side-by-side through turn three, the fans in the bleachers standing in salute before the onslaught. As they rounded through turn four you could feel a difference in the air, and in the crowd, and in the concrete seat beneath you as they came, the roar from forty-three, 600 hp engines screaming angrily towards you, the cars nervously jockeying for position like a boy at the movies on a first date. Like everyone else, Dave and I were also standing now as they approach us, me screaming and waving my driver forward, Dave watching them roar past in mesmerized wonder… and blissfully hatless.

It is not a difficult game, racing, though there are nuances to know. I recall at one point Eddie Bierschwale’s car got sideways and lifted completely up off the ground as if held there by a giant, invisible hand as it flew directly towards us. I was standing and could see the car’s undercarriage, exhaust system and all as it hung like a toy in front of me. Joyful, I turned to find Dave curled up in a humorous ball beneath his seat. Yet by day’s end my rookie friend was an expert, educated in every phase of racing; driver’s, strategies, and courtesies. Having hooked my fish, those Sunday afternoons watching races alone in our little apartment became parties of two when we were broke, which was much of the time, and roadtrips when we weren’t.

They say you can’t go home again. I found this to be true. Dave and I stayed in touch after I moved to Charlotte. I even bumped into him unexpectedly at a race once. I assumed that racing was something I would always have, and that my friend Dave and I would always share it, but time is fickle, taking Dave away for good and changing my beloved NASCAR into something almost unrecognizable, with ”Cars of Tomorrow” that all look exactly alike (some are even foreign, eee-gads!) and that are unable to pass one another without difficulty. And the racetracks are mostly as alike as the cars are, besides their being spread into far away geographies where there are no hardcore fans, hence the empty grandstands in Kansas, California, and Vegas most weekends. Ticket prices have become as ridiculous as those for NFL games, and then you have these drivers with midwestern names who whine when they lose, rather than fight. Nah, me and a hundred thousand other southerners will take a pass on that.

So I am pretty much done with racing. I still turn to some of the bigger races when I am home on a Sunday, but my attention quickly wanes. Gone is the Ford and Chevy rivalry, gone are the short tracks with their noon starts, gone are the drivers in open-faced helmets having a smoke at 200 mph, gone are the kids clinging to the catch fences, and the chicken bones and soda cans tossed down to the walkways, gone are the beer brands on cars, the cigarette brand on the trophies, and the pretty girls kissing the winner at race’s end (Well, the pretty girls might still be there, I honestly don’t know. Seems a bit sexist though, for this day and age?). It seems that, as everything does, Southern stock car racing has run its course.

But that documentary, now. I’ve got to say, that was pretty darn good. The racing scenes got me going, seeing the old guard strapped in again, hammer down and hell-bent for glory. It’s a shame my old buddy Dave and I can’t load up the truck for one last NASCAR roadtrip. I’ll bet he would like that, if he was still here with us.

I know I would, just once, for old time’s sake.

I thought the fighting was over. I thought that even if I hadn’t killed those demons; I at least laid them to rest. Last winter I found myself staring at pictures that my son drew in school as my wife sat upstairs contemplating the future of our marriage. I’d said so many times that things would change, that the words became meaningless. They did as much as good as a man spitting on a wildfire. So, I said, “If you’ll stay, I’ll start doing therapy. I’ll work on myself. Just give me a little bit of time.” She reluctantly agreed.

So, a few days later, I locked myself in the spare room, staring at a screen with an old man from southern California, who spoke slowly as though every word meant just as much as the last. He carried a thin smile throughout his introductory speech, letting me know it was alright to laugh, and it was alright to say anything. This was indeed a safe space.

“I can’t stop fighting with my wife.” I said the first day. “I don’t know what it is, but we can’t seem to stand each other anymore.”

“Why do you think that is?” He asked.

“Partly because of my temper, and partly because I feel that she’ll forever play the victim.”

“Now, that’s interesting. Could you elaborate on the playing the victim part?”

I felt bad, almost nauseated, and I wanted to just exit the screen and take off. Just go for a drive somewhere, one of those long therapeutic drives with no destination. But, if I did that, she’d leave, and she’d take the kids with her. Whether that was the best reason for staying, I don’t know. But the house was too big, and full of life. Sitting in it, by myself in the deep quietness of solitary confinement, felt like enough to blow my head clean off. The noise, though it drove me mad sometimes, also kept me breathing.

“Well, uh, look, I love my wife. But every argument we’ve ever gotten into has ended with me saying that I’ll fix myself. That I’ll go to therapy. That I’ll stop getting mad about sex. That I’ll stop getting mad about everything, and just once, I’d love her to say, hey, I’ll work on me too. But she won’t, because in her mind, she has nothing to work on. She just married some kind of sick sadistic asshole, who makes one right move for every 50 wrong ones. And it’s hard. Call it narcissism, call it whatever you want, but I don’t feel like she’s a sweet angel with a halo hovering above her head, and I just come home from work looking to wreak havoc on her and my family. And I feel like the only way our marriage will ever stand the test of time is if I just become an obedient dog. Yes, ma’am, no, ma’am, sure, ma’am. And I think if I tried that, I’d eventually go off like a fucking atomic bomb. So, I guess I’m here wondering, what on earth should I do?”

And from there, we went back and forth for months. Me and a 75-year-old man from California, with a lifetime’s worth of stories and regrets, but a lifetime’s worth of perseverance and seeking answers to all those questions that seemed devoid of them. He was an inspiration to me, because he put things into perspective.

“Do you think that you’re relying on her too much for your own happiness?” He asked me.

“Uh, I don’t know.”

“Well, you say that you get angry if she doesn’t want to have sex, or if she doesn’t want to spend time with you when the kids go to bed. Does it make you angry because you don’t have a Plan B that just involves yourself?”

I thought about that for a moment.

And it was like a revelation.

“I think you’re right,” I said.

That same smile appeared on his weathered face.

“Look,” he said. “I’m not here to say that she doesn’t have things to work on, right? But we’re here for you. We’re here because you took that giant leap to speak with a stranger about things that you don’t speak to anyone about. That takes a lot of courage. It takes a lot of courage to seek help, and to stop fooling yourself into believing that all of life’s hardships can be solved alone inside our own heads. Fools think that way, and fools drown themselves. But, I do think that there are dependency issues at work here. Issues that stem possibility from a time early on when you were attached at the hip. But the years go on and a natural drift starts to appear. Some deal with that better than others. But tell me, what do you like to do? Something that doesn’t involve another soul. Something that you could do, if like an episode of the Twilight Zone, everyone disappeared off the face of the earth. What would you do?”

“I like to write. I want to write a book. I like to play guitar and listen to my records too.”

“Do you do those things?”

“Not as much as I should.”

“Well, the next time plans with your wife don’t go as planned, take yourself out of the situation and go do those things. Unburden yourself, become more independent and seek happiness and validation from yourself, and yourself alone.”

And I did that. And it worked for a while. There were no major changes in our marriage, but I felt myself becoming less bothered by things that would have normally upset me. I played my guitar more, and that winter, I even wrote a full draft for a short story collection that eventually got published.

There was a power in independence. One that I suppose I’d forgotten about.

But the other day there was a misstep and again the verbal bullets flew. This time it started over a head cold. Yeah, you read that right. A fucking head cold. We were doing dishes together after supper, and she sniffled and said, “I’m tired of being sick.”

And I responded, “You’re always sick.” And as an added joke, I said, “I don’t really even believe that you’re sick. I believe you believe you’re sick.” A stupid joke, but a joke nonetheless.

We finished the dishes, and she went upstairs to use the bathroom. She’d been talking about taking a bath before the kids went to bed, and I said, “Oh, by the way, if you want to take a bath, go right ahead.”

Then I noticed she was crying a little, and I said, “What’s going on?”

She turned with sadness and annoyance in her eyes and said, “You really hurt my feelings.”

“About what?”

“About not believing that I was sick. I am sick. And it hurts my feelings when you don’t believe me. You think I’m just making it up?”

“It was a joke.” I said, and she stormed off into the kitchen.

I could feel that temper flushing in my cheeks. And I hated that feeling. My hands became clammy, and my heart pounded, almost as though my appendages and organs knew a fight was going to happen before it happened. And it was Friday, not even two hours into the weekend, and I was already having a premonition about a full two days of ignoring each other. A full weekend of trying to not let the kids see what was happening. But they’re getting older now, and I suppose that cat’s been out of the bag for a while.

I followed her into the kitchen where she cried some more, and I could have been sympathetic, should have been sympathetic, but anger was winning the battle of emotions.

“Why do you get to do this?” I asked. “Both kids in the living room and you’re going to have a full meltdown. Do you know what’s going to happen? You’re going to get upset and cry and hole yourself up somewhere and I’m going to have to go out and act like everything is normal with the kids. Is that it? You’re 31 years old. I think it’s time to get over having your feelings hurt over a stupid joke.”

“Jesus, you’re not sympathetic. You don’t care about me.”

“Do you think you’re sympathetic to me? When I threw my back out a couple months ago, what did you do? I couldn’t fucking breathe and you laughed your head off. What happened when my balls were so swollen, I couldn’t walk and I thought I had goddamn cancer? What did you do? You laughed. You stood over the bed and laughed at me. And yeah, fine whatever, it’s okay to make light of situations like that, but man, you have some nerve to tell me I don’t care about you because I made a joke. It was a goddamn joke.”

Then she went from the kitchen to the bathroom, getting ready to slam the door in my face. I stopped it, and she screamed.

“GET OUT OF MY FACE AND LEAVE ME ALONE!”

“You don’t get to do this.” I said. “Over a head cold.”

Then she slapped the bathroom wall, screaming as loud as she could now. How did we get here? Jesus Fuck, how did we get here?

“THAT’S NOT WHAT THIS IS FUCKING ABOUT!”

Then she approached me, moving faster than I’ve seen her move in the twelve years that we’d been together. Her nose flush against my nose, like she was getting ready to knock my head off.

“Are you trying to fight me? Are you going to hit me?” I asked.

The world was going red. The screaming and the fact that the kids were hearing it all. No longer than ten minutes ago, had you asked me how my marriage was going? I would have said, right as rain, man. Everything’s fine. Groovy.

How does it get here? Why is my wife staring at me like she hates me more than anyone else on God’s green earth? And why couldn’t I have just been more sympathetic? Sorry, you’re feeling sick. Boom. Crisis averted. Do you want me to go get you some cold medicine? Boom. I’m in her good graces now. I’m beginning to look a little like a hero.

She slammed the door of the bathroom. The noise reverberated throughout the house. And I was depleted. The anger quickly liquidizing into sadness. The walk of shame to the living room where my kids sat playing Minecraft.

They were deep into their games and, for a shadow of a moment, I thought they heard nothing. They didn’t pay attention. But that proved to be wrong. Of course, the goddamn house shook. No way they didn’t hear that.

And it was one of those moments that I’d felt several times throughout the course of my marriage. A deep discomfort in my own skin, in the world around me, wanting to run somewhere but not wanting to leave the kids behind.

Something people don’t talk about, or at least not that I’ve heard, is the difficulties in the aftermath of a blowout when you have kids. You see, when we first met, if we fought, I’d leave. Easy peasy. We’d both get our space. I’d go for a walk downtown to a coffee shop, grab a seat near the back and sit in silence until the screams of anger inside my head tired themselves out, and then I’d return. At the same time, she’d get to be alone, and we’d have crucial hours to think about what had just transpired.

But when you have kids, you can’t run away and leave your partner to take care of both of them because you’re having a tantrum. You need to parent. You always need to parent.

As soon as I sat down, my daughter asked. “Why were you and mommy screaming at each other?”

Ouff, a deep pain in my heart. An arrow right through it.

“We just got a little mad at each other. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

“Were you being mean to her?”

Another dagger.

“I guess so.” Unsure of what to say, I added. “Do you guys want to go for a walk?”

They both leaped up off the couch and screamed in unison. “YEAHH!” And it made me both happy and sad because I realized I should do this more often, not just when I need to run away from life for a while, and happy that they wanted to be with me.

“Can I say bye to mom?” my daughter asked.

“Sure.” I said, and she went over to the bathroom and knocked on the door. She said bye and came back out to say that mommy was sad and she was sitting in the dark. I prayed these memories wouldn’t stick, but I had similar ones from a similar age, and I figured they would too. These memories weren’t going anywhere.

It was a chilly October evening, and the sun was going down in the next hour or so. Not that I thought we lived in a particularly shady part of town, but it was close to downtown and there were some characters that roamed those streets at night. So, I told them just a quick loop around the block and we’d have to go back home. Though at that moment, I could have walked to the edge of the earth.

We went up the street to the mailbox first and it was nothing but election junk mail. We walked back down to the house, and I threw it all in the recycling bin, then we kept going down towards the park along the edge of the river.

I apologized to the kids multiple times, making myself sound like a broken record.

"I don’t want you guys to hear mommy and daddy yelling at each other. I hate that you

hear it, and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

"It's okay, daddy," they both said.

I could feel a lump forming in my throat. They deserved better, and I was always sure that they were lucky to have me, that no other father could hold a candle to me. Again, it was narcissism at its finest, but it lived protected behind a thick and what I thought was an indestructible barrier inside my head. But now, the great walls had fallen, and I thought at that moment that every father that ever roamed this shitty rock was better than me. Everyone was better than me.

We made our way to the parking lot of the high school and walked along a low stone wall. The kids making a game out of it. They talked about Minecraft. And told me about all the crazy things you could do in the game, and I told them I wanted to watch them play a little before bed because I was feeling like an old head. They lit up at this, and that made me feel better.

Sure, it was a nasty fight (are there any good ones?), but it was just a fight. And we’d persevere or we wouldn’t. But one thing that was as certain as a sunrise was that I’d always be a father. If I lost their mother, then it had to be, but I’d never lose them. I couldn’t.

I thought about the therapist from sunny California, and I thought about independence. And I told myself to be happy with myself. It was hard at that moment, as hard as it had ever been, but I said that once the kids went to bed, I’d watch a movie, maybe have a beer, and in the morning, maybe my wife and I could make things right, or maybe not. But I was going to enjoy my own company, and I would not let one bad evening unravel everything I’d worked so hard for.

I wasn’t going to just be an asshole who was mean. I was going to be better. I just needed to enjoy myself.

We continued our walk and when the sun set; we came back to the house. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

And for extra measure, I said one more time.

“I’m sorry, kids.”

I thought it went away,

they said it would,

the heart that squeezes

bleeding tears

as memories

of joys and sorrows

little hurts

and big dreams

flood the mind

shared moments

when you were

still

and I could call

or visit

or write

and know

you would be there

with smiles

and hugs

and laughter

and love;

I thought it went away,

and I could face each day

with you tucked safely

deeply

in a corner of my mind

ache softened

dulled

by the passing years

growing older

than you ever were

and away

from when

our lives

entwined;

I thought it went away.

But then yesterday,

--was it an old song?

the huge full moon

as I drove home from work?

nature dressed in fall colors

under the clear, blue sky?

a joke that would have made you laugh?--

I picked up the phone

~I picked up the phone~

to share a silly nothing,

but there's no number to dial

that you will answer

and I can no longer hear

the echo of your voice

and your only smiles

are in fading pictures

and our only hugs

are the ones I give myself

wearing your sweater

full of holes

falling to pieces

like me

after all this time

I thought it went away,

grief;

I was mistaken.

In my mind I'm holding on

so many moments

tread lightly

hand in hand

though law

insists

we're big kids now

and that sort of thing

is frowned upon

but I am

still,

walking

so many paces behind...

with your hand in mine.

i haven't seen you in a year.

it's a relief.

it should be a relief.

instead it's a dread.

i'm not stupid. i know

you'll be back.

sometimes when i lie awake

at night

i feel your approach

fading away just before

you arrive.

i breathe a sigh of relief

and fall asleep.

i push you from my mind

because i have to.

i cannot think about you.

don't think about it.

don't think about it.

don't talk about it.

don't write about it.

but here i am. writing it.

thinking it. maybe you

were right.

maybe i did want it.

maybe i even

needed it.

i haven't forgotten.

my days are spent

not with sighs of relief

or the cherishing of each night

that i go without—

but instead with the fear

of the night you'll return.

because i know you will.

maybe once upon a time,

i thought you went away,

but i've given up on

kidding myself.

you are, after all,

a part of me.

isn't that what

my first psychiatrist said?

you are the rot in my gut that i

try to starve out of me;

you are the intrusive thoughts

that make me believe i am a monster;

you are the distorted disgusting image

of my bare body that i spend my life

trying to cover up.

you are the hatred that i

cannot beat out of myself.

i'm always externalizing my flaws.

building people in my head to blame

when i fuck up.

you are the shame.

so many people told me

i had no reason to be broken.

so i invented you

to break me.

and it worked.

which is why i know you'll

be back.

because shame doesn't die.

it can't be killed.

it can only be stalled, delayed,

pushed away towards some

abstract future date

that i know is fast approaching.

you're coming.

i'd like to say i'm ready for it.

i'm prepared, or at least i'll

have time to prepare, to guard my throat

against the acid reflux, to

build up my mental defenses and stand up

to you again.

but i'm never prepared.

that's the funny thing about shame.

it creeps up. subtle.

you are the space in my brain that i define

by what's around it, the life, the love

that you displace. because i cannot

face it head on.

i have to stay on the outskirts,

fencing off the pitfalls

in my brain, tunnels in the amygdala,

rivers in the frontal lobe

that will lead me straight to you.

you're the part of me

that i cannot admit is mine.

and until i can,

we'll be stuck in this endless dance

of torment.

you: my flaws, my shame.

and me: forever looking for

excuses.

“Never go back to a place where you have been happy. Until you do it remains alive for you. If you go back it will be destroyed.” - Agatha Christie

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite the general consensus against flying, he looked forward to the “me time”; watching movies, eating, and sleeping while being attended to. Not today.

He had not eaten a single meal, and was looking forward to meeting his mates, after almost four decades. He asked for an orange juice, adjusted the headphones, and pulled the blanket up to his neck.

Spinning the clock back in his mind, he smiled. It had been a daily ritual of sorts at the local chai-wallah, the owner known simply as 'Uncle'. His mob of teenagers would leave the place either when ‘Uncle’ closed for the day, or when their banter was exhausted. Usually, it was the former.

At the time, it seemed like they would grow old together, in the same time and place. Even when their career paths diverged, they continued the soirée unabated. Jabber of playing Cricket turned to discussing the game, there being no time left to play from the pursuit of happiness, a la Economics.

Daily catch-ups turned to weeklies until the span stretched to months and geographies. Videoconferencing provided a fun alternative but the novelty wore off. Promises to sync again diluted and broke. After reviving connections on socials, he had suggested a meetup and was almost in tears when the mob agreed en masse.

After landing, and navigating the usual drills at the airport, he hailed a cab, and settled back to enjoy the nostalgia rushing past as the driver made his way to the destination, replete with honking, cursing, and breaking traffic rules. He would catch up with his buddies before heading home to see his family.

When he alighted at the rendezvous spot, he had to stretch for a bit. The ride had taken its toll on his lower back and it was something he didn't miss from the old days when a rough ride was part of everyday life.

His friends, now balding and graying, not unlike himself, were as welcoming as he could remember. They hugged him and complimented him on his physique; quite the contrast from their sagging chests and growing bellies.

“Foreign countries keep you fit, yaar. Everyone is into exercise and fitness!” One of his mates teased him.

“Arrey, I ask you what is the need to struggle with exercise at this age? Who's going to a Mr. India contest, huh? Enjoy life!” Another shared his philosophy.

He just laughed along because he was happy to be back in their company, and at Uncle's.

“Hey buggers,” he finally asked, “Where's the chai?”

“You still remember, no? Bugger’s not changed a bit that way!”

“Of course I remember.” He laughed. “Now, let's order a round or five.”

“No more Uncle's chai, man. He was bought over by that big American cafe chain!”

“What? No.”

“Ya! Hey, but they make a good latte, okay?”

I thought it went away.

I wasn't sure when it'd happened.

Maybe it was with the first thump of his fists on my back, behind the ear, on the inside of my thighs-- always somewhere prying eyes wouldn't dare to venture.

Maybe it was that day I'd chosen to stay inside, rather than risk running into someone who knew me, knowing they'd see the unspoken shadows in my eyes.

Maybe it was that fourth of July when I didn't bother to light up a sparkler because I knew it would only burn brightly for a fraction in time.

Maybe it was the day I pulled my hood up, sheltering perfectly quaffed hair from glittering rain.

Or perhaps it wasn't one day at all, but the culmination of many: many minuscule decisions that slowly chipped away, until nothing was left at all.

Until I was hollow.

Maybe, I killed it on purpose.

Maybe it hurt too much.

Maybe I knew the world would try to take it if I didn't do away with it myself.

I don't know how or when or why, but one day I realized it'd gone quiet.

And I was relieved.

There was a hole in my heart, but that only made it easier.

Easier.

It was easier to never be disappointed.

It was easier to crinkle my eyes at the corners, to scrunch up my nose, to emulate the titter of laughter only felt in my throat.

It was easier to wave a dismissive hand at the things that might've caused me pain.

So I relished the hollow ache and didn't try to fill up that empty space.

Yes, I was glad it was gone, in the way one who feels nothing at all can be glad, anyway.

And then.

I thought I saw it one day, out of the corner of my eye.

I shoved it away.

Shoved it down, down, down, so far inside my spirit that I thought I'd finally smothered it for good.

But then, it began to haunt me in earnest.

It lingered in the steam rising from a cup of liquid chocolate.

It whispered in the wind, stirring eddies of sand between my toes.

It spoke in soft tones in the crackling of a fire, the smooth rub of a soft blanket on my legs.

It sang, a tickle on the shell of my ear, as calloused hands explored the planes of my stomach, so inexplicably gentle that a tiny fissure formed in the hardness of my heart.

It clanged like a gong in the spaces between the stars where untold galaxies beckoned.

It shouted with each tickling leg of a ladybug, dancing on my naked knee.

And then it roared, louder than a tidal wave, crushing the brittle walls around my heart, as I traced a finger across the translucent skin of an unfathomably tiny ear, as little fingers curled with surprising strength around my pointer finger.

I thought it'd gone away.

But as those fingers held mine, the empty well inside my soul overflowed,

and the world was technicolor.

I think it might be even brighter, now that it's back.

I saw my old banjo case

in the back of my closet,

where for years it languished

with the instrument inside.

I recalled the day we split

and I gave my heart to a guitar.

Something moved me to brush away

the dust, and I hauled that old case

into the bedroom where the banjo

and I long ago made music

together. I opened the lid

and gazed upon my old love.

She was as I remembered her.

The wooden neck I used to cradle

was still a dull, faded brown.

The frets in front were worn down.

The five steel strings were frayed

and no doubt needed tuning.

As I so gently lifted

my ex out of her dark grave

I noticed the marks still etched

into the light synthetic head--

flaws made by my errant

fingerpicks scarring her beauty.

I recalled her patience

as this beginner slowly learned

how to treat her properly,

how to make bluegrass music,

how to introduce her to jams.

But all that was in the past.

Could lost love be rekindled?

I had to find out, so I slid

my picks onto my left pointer,

middle finger and thumb.

With my hands in their old places,

I tried to revive our magic.

Hesitantly, pick by pick,

our very first song together

slowly emerged. “Cripple Creek.”

I paused to savor the moment.

Time apart did not destroy love.

My muscle mem’ry was still there.

He bought a ring for me at a local fair. It was a beautiful setting, a blue lacy agate. When I looked into it I could see the rolling waves of the ocean. It was so lovely.

One afternoon we were out with the horses and getting in the truck I realized the setting of my ring was gone! Oh I was sick to my stomach because I really loved this stone.

How in the world would we ever find it? For all I knew it was lost in the pasture and that would be like finding a needle in a haystack!

Oh the humanity!

I just knew i'd nevet see it again and my heart just sank.

I have lost so many rings in my life that if I got back what they were worth, I would probably be well off sadly.

This wasn't just a ring or just a stone. This had meaning because of what it reminded me of. It reminded me of days long past, spent on beaches with my dad. Him carving cars out of driftwood, bringing up hermit crabs from the shallows for me to play with in the sand, and picking seashells along the shore.

So the stone gone, i moved on.

Then a couple months later my husband was cleaning out his truck

when he came in and asked me if i remembered loosing something.

I said "Yes my mind but you knew that already!"

Then he showed me the stone!

I was so happy i cried!

So now i have the stone but cant find the ring so now I have to get the stone put back into a ring!

Gosh! You win some

You loose some!

Returning to my desk, I realize something’s missing. “Honey, I don’t remember where I put my glasses,” I announce to my wife. She won’t know where they are because she’s been in the front room reading while I’ve been in the den at the computer.

“‘Where are my glasses?’ the lobotomy patient said absentmindedly,” she verbally lunges from afar.

To her credit, that was a great comeback. But I’ll keep my compliment bottled up for the time being. “Technically, if I was a lobotomy patient, I’d blissfully forget having glasses in the first place, so this conversation wouldn’t be happening,” I parry, attempting to negate her sarcasm with logic.

“But having a lobotomy wouldn’t correct your vision, so at some point you’d realize you needed glasses and here we’d be,” she ripostes, still out of sight.

My counterattack didn’t put a dimple in her vocal armor. Leery of fighting a war on two fronts, I relent to redirect my energy to the initial, pressing battle: Find the glasses I had on before getting a drink.

“Let me retrace my steps,” I acquiesce.

“Okay, I’m here if you need me,” she offers with a heavy, rhetorical overtone.

Despite compromised vision, I decline her assistance. “I’m good.”

Standing with beverage in hand, I survey the desktop, assuring my cheaters weren’t buried under the miscellaneous paperwork. Then I execute a 360-degree scan of the adjacent furnishings in the room to no avail. This means I had them on my way to the kitchen. I replicate and peruse the route taken when leaving the den.

Scouring the kitchen with the same meticulousness used previously ends with a similar outcome. Desperation creeps in which fuels an illogical urge to look in abstract locations for my wayward lenses. So, I check the refrigerator. Then the microwave. Then the bread box. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

I contemplate inspecting the garbage disposal since there’s a one in a trillion chance my glasses fell in without me noticing them departing my face or hearing them hit a drain opening they couldn’t pass through unimpeded unless folded and orientated vertically. I snap back to reality, but still flip the switch for confirmation the chamber is empty. It is.

Hoping a view from a different perspective will yield better results, I backtrack to the den. Then repeat this roundtrip. Neither are fruitful. So, my glasses are lost forever, sucked into some transportational vortex to another dimension. Out of frustration, I put my hands on my head and feel the telltale plastic frame that’s been securely hitchhiking there the entire time.

I let out a sigh/“Dammit” combination.

From the other room, “What now?”

“Never mind, found them.”

“Good for you.”

I slide my specs into their rightful position on my nose. At this advanced stage of my life, would LASIK surgery be beneficial to eliminate the need for glasses, thus avoiding the possibility of repeating anguished searching in the future? Maybe. But first, where in the Hell did I leave my drink?