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Quiet Moments Make My Day

Reflections of a life

Image. Author

It happens, sometimes, that I’m forced to remember the things I didn’t do so well. I’m not good at the time or summing up, only to say it took many years for some bruises to fade, leaving only an outward blemish. The rupture on the inside, once as true as spitting blood, never allows me to answer the phone without first knowing who the caller is or meeting friends without first having a plan to leave them.

People came into my life and brought with them such love and friendship. Life intermittently sparkled. But then, all too often, things happen, and I’m left alone, broken, and bitter. It isn’t that I have a bumper crop of problems, for no man could have less worry.

Tomorrow I can pick up readied bags and be gone. But this is the place I’ve been the longest and dearly want to stay. Every summer I promise myself I’ve done enough running. That everything bad is farther than the winter behind me, that there is no reason to leave these hills pink and crimson… closer than the whisper of a woman.

I’m seldom home long enough to see potted plants flower or taste the beer getting cold in the fridge. Friends will marry and divorce and I’ll wonder why I can never eat breakfast at breakfast time?

I’m not fit enough to keep running. I’ll probably consider a little exercise but only stand still long enough for the thought to go away. I once thought I could love every good person in the world — but happy to love just one.

This late in life, I wonder who will be left behind to sort out questions I couldn’t answer? It doesn’t seem fair to involve others. Such queries left me ill at ease. When and how does poetry move between fact and fiction? I don’t believe any author could tell you this. I certainly couldn’t.

But too often I am walking down the Seine, in Paris, buying bagels in New York, or driving beside the San Francisco Bay. I cannot discern how long I’ve been away or if I’m still in transport. I might be on the edge of dying or beginning over, or on the edge of both. Yet, every day, a new door opens, but old days never close unless I want them to.

I never do.



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