Parting

He must be sitting in a room somewhere with his loved ones around him. One assumes he wouldn’t be alone with the end drawing so close. I only met him three or four times, a father and a husband. I was informed of his sharp decline by his daughter who happens to be two or three days older than me, or younger. I cannot remember which.

Almost simultaneously I read of another acquaintance who’s father has had an operation, seemingly successful. Public comments of gladness and relief. The usual display. This man has been granted more life, while another is parting from his. A family left behind, grief and pain, but probably few regrets.

These typical tidal occurrences in the world’s ocean of humanity are nothing new, but they prod and probe, wash and erode. My guilt emanates from, not the possession of good health and a blessed life, but my inability to focus on a direction, a purpose. How should I use the gift while I have it? I know what I should do, but turning that knowledge into actions proves problematic. I can write, but what does that solve? Does it strengthen my soul, or does it simply distract?

I find myself disturbingly distant from my traditional work responsibilities. I have no desire to remain involved. My disturbance is perhaps a withdrawal symptom that actually reveals my destructive addiction to the meaningless acts I continue to perform. Or maybe I am simply irresponsible, ungrateful, a child. As expected, my writing offers a temporary distraction, but the words I part with provide no answers in their wake.

If you liked what you just read, be sure to give it a heart so someone might bump into it.