he walks with the swagger of a circus peanut. he rocks baggy blue flannels and a sports jacket.
at seventy-six, he climbs into that still-passes-inspection blue subaru, whistling his way to the office. that subaru parked outside sports games, science fairs, and performances.
he's nosy, he's finnicky, he's quick to frustration.
we gathered amidst a living-room where crumpled plastic cups lose themselves between the cushions. we find ourselves together, paper plates in hand, savoring in his practice-turkey the week before thanksgiving.
once I was old enough, I set my sails on course in only one direction. away.
my ship bore a dress-code. all items which no longer had utility were promptly burned. meals were steeped in routine and ritual.
I didn't appreciate work. I hadn't withered enough life to understand why the couch was stuffed with trash. and I didn't know how good it felt to join the circus.
my ship succumbed to the waves. I was overdressed for a wreck.
I tore off the layers, as I plunged downwards. my lungs squeezed tightly for the last drops of air.
my heart stopped and I faded into the ocean current and as I lay there in the sea-grass looking up at the fish, I was reminded that breathing around him was unconditional.
so I took a breath.
and now, I set off once again.
may I trade my precise ship for a cracked and broken bathtub. may the curtains serve as my sails.
may I curl up into the bubbles, sipping virgin cocktails and laughing in the mirror.
thank you for your gift, you old fart.