grandfathered stories

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Through a clearing down by this little pond I used to attend, I found an old bench my grandfather had left me at while he checked his animal traps. He was a fur trader who never had much luck with women, which is why he only had one who hated him dearly. I had heard from my grandmother that he had actually got caught in his own trap, who she claimed to be herself. He must have confused her for a coyote one night in the desert moon. Wailing away mysteries of anguish and loneliness, she held her contempt in his pride. He would dance around her in this trap making gestures and jokes to amuse himself with her laughter. She must have found this endearing.

              Needless to say, it was enough to have children, who also had children. Here I am, a product of a mathematical equation, guided by non-logic and childish whims. I stand corrected beyond all measure and pull back the question of "why am I here?" in exchange for, "now what?"

              I never claimed to have the answers or anything for that matter, at least nothing I could keep long enough to call my own. I have a hobby shop of ideas buried somewhere between my families cabin and the shores of Lake Superior. I drone out old Midwest clichés out of habit and curiosity. I sway though possibilities seamlessly by means of ambiguity, indecision, and alcohol, and stories of romance that do not belong to me.

 

             Once, I had the ability to control myself, until I abandoned the illusion for a life raft, while never quite leaving shore. I struggled with the concept until God himself told me to forsake any notions of him. I was alone as I had the conversation, I am alone now.