Waking Up To Which?


I wake up feeling elated and confused. I’ve just come down from a cosmic acid trip. The morning pulsates with electric possibilities. And (YES!) it’s still 1969.

I wake up in the cabin of a Huey, a thousand feet above An Loc, jolted to consciousness by the nearby blast of an antiaircraft shell. Still riding the darkness like a hungry ghost. Still expecting the fall.

I wake up on the first morning my first son is at home. His tininess renders me speechless. The responsibility of his presence terrifies me. His little finger touches mine and I know what it means to be filled with the Holy Ghost, to explode with love, to meet the future.

I wake up on the first day in my new apartment after my divorce. I strain to hear comforting sounds now lost forever. Silence rules. For the first time, I feel the essential emptiness of the word: alone.

I wake up by myself at four AM in a shambling hovel to the sound of a spoiled, fat cat meowing. He is the alarm clock of my fate. He marks the place I will always wake up, until I don’t.

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