Mostly, I stumble like a young Angus in a bed of mums. Hooves caked with dark, rich soil, but not understanding anything with the
exception of the awkwardness that are my feet and that the sweet taste of the
grasses sprouting around the mums, satisfies for a short while. I picture
myself landing delicately, but try as I might, gravity doesn’t give way to the
desires of an aging boy restless for want of a decent sentence to pass on to
trouble souls. I settle to the carpet,
long since worn with the traffic of life and close my eyes in an attempt to
fuse the tag ends of my existence and create that circle that allows my progeny
to travel their track, to their destiny, hoping that they can land more
delicately. I see other destinations for them, shining and futuristic, their
happy faces raised to the light of a rapturous sun, hand in hand, wanting each
other and embracing the coming of the comets tail. Upon reflection and in
parables that float thought the watery vastness of my closed eyes, the truth is
printed on the inside of my eyelids. They too will feel awkward, slogging
through the mud, surrounded by beauty and wondering if their offspring will
enjoy a lightness of being that will allow them to fly to the moon for a picnic
of wonder and wisdom. In my mind, I throw them the keys to my rocket ship and
tell them to be careful, the road to the moon has no speed limit and racing the
light often ends up being a losing bet.