Hello, it's me.
Sorry I haven't written in awhile. Things have been a little nuts.
And that's the way it seems right now. Out of sync. Nothing makes sense. Needing time that doesn't exist.
What's funny about it is this is my favorite time of year. Springtime. Baseball. That weird, heartbreaking yet beautiful few days that is Good Friday to Easter.
And yet. And yet.
Monday afternoon I took off to watch our game. Mike and J.M. came over. We cooked burgers. The Tigers lost. But, as always, it was rejuvenating. My dear, old friend is back for another six months.
For a few precious hours I remembered what is good and decent and poetic about this journey we call life. Or, at least, it's an illusion of such and I let it fool me.
I feel like I am so close sometimes. That everything I've witnessed and the scar tissue and the feeling that nothing ever seems to fit will soon be over. That my life, stuck in neutral, is about to click into fifth gear.
And then the page turns and I'm stuck in a bog, trapped in the undertow, trying to climb to the surface.
I am thinking this afternoon of a short story I read once written by a late, great former professor, Dr. Robert Drake. It is set, of course, in his beloved Ripley, out in West Tennessee, years ago. It's Good Friday. His father dies. The poignancy of it all is beautiful in its heartache.
I don't know why I'm thinking about it. But I am.
Oh, well. Let's forget all that.
I'm going to go home in a little while, fix dinner, and watch my game.