What can YOU say in six sentences?
I was trapped in a mental sandwich, some insane mixture of peanut butter and mustard on rye, a dash of Tobasco and a slice of Muenster; it's a dead-end cycle, like when you talk to yourself for too long.
From busy boredom I've moved into contentment, because I've self-medicated, an overdose of Halloween candy, plus my forty-eight year old feet are warm like kittens in their fuzzy leopard slippers.
This is forty-eight.
My calendar still looks like pencil and ink static, days dipped in chaos, and if I ran my tongue across October it would taste like that sandwich in my head, that and Almond Joy, so I look forward to a slower November, to the stuffing and cranberry, to the cold and fireplace, the sweaters and thickening coats on the dogs who lift their noses eagerly to the promise of more deer to chase, more walks in the changing seasons.
On a number line, my age is beyond the middle point, but this is no longer disturbing, most likely because I'm still high and warm, the air outside chilly, my children playing like the flavor of forever, a memory I can taste of bliss wrapped like Christmas.
There is a little voice, louder now, that spoke as I mounted the steps and approached the podium last Wednesday, When you get up there, you'll know who you are, and maybe with age we realize we've always worried about the wrong things, the blind end instead of the now, and all we heard was the false static instead of the voice.