Bring on the cold. Put people in layers. Bundle them up. Keep them inside. Put ice under their feet. Snow between their legs. Make them work for movement. Steady themselves. Slow down and take care.
Because that's what we need.
More care.
Tired of thieves and rapists. Molesters and murderers. Sick of rich, white collar criminals. Had enough of laziness and ignorance. Chips on shoulders. And the insane sense of entitlement that people have.
Really tired of people living on the surface. Not making an effort to dig a little deeper. Know a little more. Better themselves. Take care of their families. Look out for someone else besides number one.
But bitching about it makes me just as bad. Writing about it makes me even worse. There are more important things to do. Better ways to channel energy. Ways to influence the positive/negative balance of this world.
And so, that's what I'll do.
Socks and pajamas last night. Tucked deep into bed. Out and in dreamland for most of the night. Heavy sleep filled with images.
Sex in a basement of rising water.
Unloaded handguns.
Running an extension cord from the inside of my old elementary school to bus 87-E. Driven by Mrs. Kelly. One that I used to ride when I was a kid.
Fights. Me in the middle. Pounding fists into strangers. Men coming at me. One after another. Feeling shredded and exhausted after the last man fell and it was only me. Just another beaten man.
Returning after a long trip. To S.B..holding her. Being happy to be home. Feeling guilty about having left at all.
Just like Dorothy said.
There's no place like home.
On a cold Wednesday morning. Chores done. Coffee hot. Stomach growling for something more. Eggs and sausage. Grapefruit for a chaser.
But when Little Man wakes, he'll want cereal with milk. And an edible, cinnamon flavored straw. We'll sit at the table. I'll watch him, listen to him, and try to figure out what it is I can and cannot say or do. More often than not, he's a slow-waker. Moody. A little like me.
Yesterday, he surprised me after his nap.
He'd only slept about an hour and a half. Came stomping down the hallway. Dragging his stuffed puppy.
“What are you doing up?”
He looked at me. Put his little fists to his eyes. Moved them around. And he said, “Couldn't sleep!”
The “couldn't” was not perfect, but it was there. And it was obvious from the little fists rubbing his eyes and the incredulous frustration on his face that he simply could not sleep. I asked him what he dreamed of. If he saw anything when he closed his eyes. He said, “Kids!”
“Nice kids, or mean kids?”
“Nice kids,” he said.
“That's good,” I said.
Then he moved to the couch. Settled into the cushion, and he said, “Apple juice! Nemo!”
So I poured him a cup of apple juice. Fired up “Finding Nemo”, and hoped it was possible that always, when he could not sleep, it was because he was dreaming of nice kids. Craving apple juice. Wanting to see and memorize every scene of a Disney movie.
But I know that won't happen. That he'll grow more and more every day. That there'll be plenty of opportunity for his roots to hit bad spots. Shoddy soil. Bugs. Rock. But those are the breaks. The chances you take when you love and care.
Like I do this cold morning.
S.B. bundled up. Walking to work. Carrying part of me with her.
Little Man tucked deep into bed. Clutching his stuffed
puppy. Finishing up dreams.
All of us about to contribute to the day. Make a difference in the positive/negative balance of this world.
