That smirk.

The one that creeps up your cheekbone,

Like a gentle ocean’s wave;

Covering you with the warm reddish glow of the setting sun on your skin, from the neck down.

It spreads like a scenic horizon, and is just as breathtaking.

When your eyes lock for the briefest of moments,

Then jump away as if you’d been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

The sun sets again, as they slowly rise up to meet me with that innocent reluctance;

The clearest of blue seas,

Beckoning me to look deeper,

As far as my eyes can see.

Lost, like a castaway begging never to be found,

Except in you.

Your smile.

The heat in the brilliance of its honesty

Boring holes in me,

Like a vampire at first light.

The trance is magnetic,

Paralyzing me to the point of utter helplessness;

Stupid, ignorant, adoring, embarrassing, fulfilling and unblemished bliss.

It is hence I must remember to breathe, lest I perish in that state.

But what a way to go.

That squint.

Eyes thinning as if peering into the blinding white sun-bathed snow cover,

But understood as a warning of sorts;

This space is yours,

Until further notice.

Enter at your own risk.

Except the dog,

Who makes them melt

Like the first day of the next Spring.

And when the brows furrow,

I understand now.

This is a time for every chore,

Or task which has been procrastinated,

Each list that has been written, or memorized,

To be performed post haste out of that unconditional love I’ve promised,

Or my will to live.

I thank god this look does not show itself often,

That I have acquired at least a portion of this lesson,

Because this face I fear more than death itself.

Makeup is your frienemy.

You have that natural complexion that screams, “Leave me alone!”

And are stunning to behold.

But when you turn your back on that inner voice, understanding there will be consequences with her later,

My god are you beautiful.

It stops me dead in my tracks every time.

Makes me weak like an adolescent boy,

Causing me to question my reality;

One that would allow the spector of you to be a part of me.

I don’t ask the wrong questions, for fear of finding the answers, but I do appreciate them.

Instead, I focus on praise, and prayer and everything that makes you, you.

All the perfect faces of the one made for me.

And the way they continue to take ownership of more real estate in my soul each day.

❤️

D

“Such a tragic loss.”

“Gone much too soon.”

“They will be sorely missed.”

The profound breaking news of every talking head on the planet, even in countries where you have absolutely no fucking idea what they’re saying until they get to the Christian name of the lost, “Oggi elenchiamo un'altra anima troppo presto, signora Dolly Parton.”

Such is our fascination with the celebrity death syndrome.

What is the real tragedy here? Because, if we’re being honest, we haven’t thought about 90% of these people since they were relevant in the 50’s, 60’s, or 70’s, but suddenly find ourselves overcome by their passing because they were pushed to the forefront of our consciousness once again, and we only have such much brain capacity for such trauma in our lives. Is that it?

Or is it a harsh reminder that everyone is taken at some point, even those who live on via our streaming catalogs and satellite radio?

But, they were never supposed to die.

That’s not the way this works.

We are born into average society, live our dutiful lives, performing our menial tasks, then disappear while the plastic surgeons keep our superheroes aging like Benjamin Button.

Celebrities are our hope. Those born with the golden ticket, destined to “have it all” from the time they are born.

Why not me??

I want to live forever.

But they don’t. And the passing yesterday of one of the most wholesome personalities to be bestowed this honor is our reminder, regardless of how CNN and TMZ decide the narrative deserves to be spun.

The reality is, most, if not all, of these rhinestone mortals face the same, or more, daily life challenges that we and our neighbors in the subdivision face, just with more means for a successful outcome, both in resources and finances.

But the clock never stops ticking, even when they feel as though its hands are churning stronger than ever.

And the real tragedy for me is the exposure and excess. This is how we typicallly lose our gods.

Because we, as underlings hold them to such unrealistic standards that it actually suffocates the life out of them until they can’t sing another verse or memorize another line.

That’s the real price for immortality I would guess.

And yet many of us would still make that deal with the devil, convincing ourselves that we wouldn’t make the same mistakes, and the notoriety and stockpiles of cash would actually help us in this quest for this measure of life success.

Jolene wasn’t perfect. None of us are. She faced her own intimate challenges head on, and did so with grace and humility.

She lived a full life. She was 80-years-old after all.

Although this is fact, and it was filled with myriads of success, it doesn’t make it easier to take, because of the good inside her.

I had the pleasure of meeting Dolly once, and it was a moment I will never forget.

She was in Dallas for some concert/meet and greet deal and I decided to go. I wasn’t necessarily a fan of her music at the time, but I was familiar and it was Dolly so I felt as though I owed it to myself to see what the hype was about.

The line was long, the people were pleasant enough, and after about an hour, it was my turn.

I was intensely shy, which was not my typical nature having grown up a relatively big fish in a small pond (I know this now), and I did everything I could do to make eye contact with her, well, because, you know. She just smiled that smile and waved those long Nashvillian country finger nails at me and said to me in that distinct southern twang she made famous across the decades, “Well, come on sugar. I won’t bite you, I promise,” as she beamed from ear to ear, like I was an acquaintance, or relative she hadn’t seen in some time.

When I got up next to her, what stood out most was how petite she was. For such a bundle of energy she was put together in a very small package.

She turned to me and reached up pinching my cheeks and proclaimed, “Well aren’t you just the cutest thang ever!” Then she threw her arm around me, pulled me in toward her and smiled like we were on the red carpet at the CMA’s.

“What’s your name darlin’?” She asked, like she truly cared to know.

“D-D-D-Darren,” I managed to eke out as if it were to be my last spoken words.

“Well, Darren, smile, relax and say cheese!” And I did.

She wished me well, told me it was a pleasure to meet me and I felt that.

Deeply.

Like she meant every word coming from inside of her.

And this is why I hold some of these people in higher regard.

Not because they are tragic, and we celebrate them with candlelight vigils on the anniversary of their “untimely” deaths, but because of the genuine nature with which they carry themselves; the humility and grateful attitude toward their fans, as humans.

I’m sure Darren became a distant memory to Ms. Parton shortly after that photo op, but her spirit has lived inside me for decades and will remain steadfast and grow stronger with her passing.

Jolene was the exception for me, not the rule, and I will mourn her in the manner in which she deserves.

Love and peace,

Darren

Four little letters can hold such relevance in upending our world.

Good and bad.

What is this pull,

The gravitational force inhibiting forward progress, constantly?

Nowhere to go.

The latter seems to punish us without cause or compassion;

It just shows up one day and begins behaving badly,

Taking us places we never imagined we would discover.

What is it about our psyches that construct us with such fragility?

And kudos to those who have it all figured out,

Nary a hiccup in their Utopian landscape.

You are an exception. Congratulations.

Now fuck off.

Self sabotage, mistrust, inexperience with such a magnifying force.

One that can destroy you in an instant, at worst,

And land you in infinite, cyclical, therapy at best.

We’re human.

We make mistakes.

A bite of forbidden fruit turning this idyllic world into a chaotic mental combat zone.

Is that what brought us to this irrational ineptitude when it comes to dealing with the human spirit,

All things being equal,

And every player a 99 on the Madden Scale?

Because that certainly is not the case today.

We are at a failure rate greater than any we’ve seen in history, both in relationships and in living.

We are surrounded and suffocated by insanity and instability, the likes of which have never been witnessed before.

Is it our inescapable incompetence in these areas that make it virtually impossible to have success in matters of the heart?

That brings us so much goddamn pain, that it feels like the next breath might just be our last? Please, God…

And how would that feel?

And, more-so, how much would it matter?

This is the anguish talking.

The self-pity.

It’s what you choose to do next that matters.

Most have been there:

The connection.

The deep emotional response.

The deception.

The pain…

When will it end?

Ever?

It’s not fair.

Is it not?

Blame your ancestors, going back to the very beginning-where all of our roots were planted.

Is this an obstacle not meant for us to traverse in this lifetime?

That which is too much to handle?

Or is it our soul awakening us from the dead…

And healing?

Slowly but certainly.

Teaching us lessons that we must heed, to feel.

For some relationships it’s too late.

For others there is hope.

For more there is infancy born of learning, and acceptance-the ability to blossom with a refusal to carve the same destiny as past generations.

That’s the beauty of love:

The reluctance.

The passion.

The vulnerability.

All equally capable of providing a pathway to peace, or peril.

Perseverance is the key.

🫶,

D

“Take me to the rooftop. I wanna see the world when I stop breathing.”

The pain.

When did it start?

I can’t even remember. Hell, I don’t even know why.

It’s just always been.

Constant and unrelenting.

Everybody hurts

As far back as I can remember,

And even before that,

When it simply didn’t make sense.

Was it the time grandpa took me fishing and stood behind me, extremely close, teaching me how to cast the rod?

No, he loved me…right?

Those nights when my parents would go out and the sitter would bathe me and put me to bed;

I mean she said she was supposed to clean all of me.

The time I spent the night at my best friend’s house and his mom came in from the pool and asked for a hug and told me she loved me;

Holding me close to her. Really close.

That was fine. I was eight.

Innocent.

“No alarms and no surprises.”

I was told it was completely normal to enter a new school at twelve and feel awkward about my surroundings.

The stares would stop.

You’re a good boy,

You’ll make lots of friends.

I don’t understand why I came home day after day,

Hiding under the covers, shaking,

Pulling at my skin,

Curled up in the fetal position and sleeping until dinner.

I lied to you

The laughter and relentless taunting,

Living in that fearful yet infuriating cocoon.

Waiting for someone to step in and say enough.

One friend.

Any friend.

Nobody did.

Acting out in class.

Attention seeking?

So much so that I would be summoned to the office for a paddling.

Corporal punishment-it was a legal deterrent then.

Was the principal supposed to close the door, though, and order me to drop my pants when he administered my punishment?

I don’t think I minded, did I?

At least someone was paying attention.

“Life it seems will fade away, drifting further every day.”

High school you ask?

I barely remember attending.

The drugs. The alcohol. The delinquency.

Now it had morphed into self-loathing.

People were more accepting.

I used to smoke in the lot with them.

And surely none of this had to do with anything from my prior adolescent life.

I never really knew, because I never let anything in.

There was this one girl though…

Say something

Still, every single night;

The music turned up so loud on my Sears and Roebuck “hi fi” system that there was barely anything recognizable besides the static any further, thanks to the likes of Rage, Blink, AIC and Nirvana.

The screaming until I relented, tossing another vinyl across the room, shattering it into a million pieces before storming out the front door, slamming it behind me and speeding off in search another fog of contentment.

Down in a hole…

“There’s no need to go and blow the candle out.”

The mandated therapy as the rap sheet grew into one of those receipts you get from CVS.

And rehab. Boy, that was fun.

Those people are so stupid.

My life was so terrible.

Thank you for allowing me to detox.

I’m fine now.

No damage done.

I’ll be a good boy again.

My parents said I was.

Off you go, back out into the world.

Good luck.

Relapse.

Why? You’re cured.

The pain doesn’t just disappear because one of my “steps” says it should.

My life is not part of that book.

What happened to me did not happen to you-not in that way.

It’s not so bad

Fuck you.

I know what I’ve taken.

I know what I need.

I’m not far off from my place.

Is there any whiskey over there? I’m parched.

That’s good. It’ll help wash those down smooth.

The burn hides the fact that they’re even going in,

And I feel better.

You have so much to live for.

Everything will be fine.

Rely on God.

It’s not that bad.

It’s not that bad.

Not anymore.

I see it, the flicker of the candle.

A gentle gust giving the calming flame a sudden jolt sending a wisp of smoke billowing toward the ceiling.

I stare at it, watching it dissipate, my eyes slowly closing,

A lone tear rolling into my hair.

Come to me

The pain…

…is gone.

So close,

And yet so painstakingly far.

Each intersection painted with emotional “what ifs”;

Enough to cover the Golden Gate Bridge

Many times over.

“How are you? You look well.”

“I’m well, everyone is well, everything is well. And you?”

“I’ve been better. My relationship is worse, but I’m happy for you. That’s what matters to me.”

A brief touch,

A gentle reminder,

Of times that were untimely-

Fate playing another cruel joke on two souls desperate to find their connection.

A firefly in the summer’s night,

Taking her back to a time

When they surrounded the bonfire together,

Yet miles apart.

Divided by chasms disguised as other relations;

Someone they had been devoted to at the time,

Taking up residence where his heart belonged.

A purposeful brush of the hair from her face,

So he could see.

Their eyes met,

As flames flickered,

And those fireflies glowed their mating beacons far off in the distance.

One day, perhaps.

She sighs and takes another sip.

He bows his head before placing his arm around another’s waist and gently turning her away.

He’d find her in random places,

At times that didn’t feel so random.

An event here,

Another town on holiday;

At a convention neither had any business attending,

But still brought them together.

Like a postcard delivered by fate

From a paradise undiscovered,

Pleading for them to take notice;

To recognize-

The signs are there.

They have always been there.

They just need to allow themselves to live, and breathe and break free.

Life gets in the way at times.

Life can be a hindrance to that which cleanses us,

Until life provides an awakening,

Or an open door which cannot be ignored by our spiritual temptation any longer.

Go ahead,

Step through to the other side.

This weekend found them together at a retreat,

Yet still so far apart.

No responsibilities,

No emotional restraints,

Just the two of them-

And a host of other enthusiastic novelists

Each on the brink of discovery

Of their own journey,

In their own way,

But nothing compared to this.

From the moment he saw her

The setting had the air of unfinished business;

Of things about to be said,

Guarded by commitment in the past,

But always being breathed a life of its own

Because its time was destined to surface.

“We meet again. What a pleasant surprise. And life?”

“I am in a far different place these days. The kids are gone, I’m spending my days developing new creative entities to keep my mind occupied…and survive. And you?”

“I’m waiting; been waiting most of my life in fact.”

“For?”

“This moment. The right moment. Our moment,” he held her gaze. “Now what did you mean before? About keeping your mind occupied and surviving? Surviving what?”

“The inevitable. The hope. The despair. You,” tears welling deep pools in her big, round, azure blue eyes. “The wait. The want. The need; of knowing what is right and yet continuing to deny myself the happiness I deserve in my life. And always hoping, praying, you would be there when that day came. Because I knew.”

“We knew. I’m here. And we can finally stay and never leave again,” he softened his voice taking her hands in his. “I’ve loved you my entire life. And you’ve loved me. And the universe is telling us it’s time and offering its blessing.”

“Care to collab on this next project? I have an idea this one will practically write itself.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Peace and love,

D

His name was Franklin Coleman III, and this day was just like any other day: he kissed his wife goodbye, picked up his favorite travel mug, the Dallas Cowboys, of course; made imperfect in its form by the many missed opportunities to reach the playoffs, or be escorted out in the first round-it was a sight to behold, and headed out for the office.

We shared a cubicle at our brokerage firm downtown.

Lynette was a school teacher. She enjoyed her mornings alone, working up lesson plans, or catching up on the latest trends, or gossip, circling her favorite socials: she was particularly fond of her Insta and TikTok accounts and couldn’t wait to compare notes inside the lounge each day. It was kind of her thing with her other people.

She needed that. They both did. It was one of the things that made them perfect for one another-their acceptance of personal space and boundaries and how those allowances had made their relationship flourish. They made a wonderful team.

On this morning she attempted to call Frank minutes after he had left the house.

He was running late (not unusual for him), and decided to let the message go to voicemail. He would retrieve it on a break or at lunch.

Lynn smiled and rolled her eyes as she left her message and thought to herself, playfully, “One of these days Mr. Coleman, and I won’t be so nice to you.”

She knew this to be a great exaggeration if not a straightforward falsehood because the two of them had never shared an ill word toward the other.

It was like they simply understood and accepted one another from the onset, and that understanding had only served to strengthen their bond.

They were the envy of all of their friends, and the most beloved.

She called the office and asked the assistant principal if she would be willing to cover for her for approximately 30 minutes as she had forgotten she needed to deposit some cash into the PTO fund, collected over the weekend from the school fair and was told without hesitation to take her time.

Lynn walked into the bank and was greeted pleasantly by her favorite teller, Gina, and began the process of depositing the cash.

At that moment, two men wearing full hooded masks which gave them the appearance of the cast of Grumpy Old Men, charged through the front door, one racking a round in the chamber of his sawed off 12 gauge, the other yelling, “Good morning ladies and gentlemen. We are here to rob this bank this morning. If you promise to play nice, sit in place, shut the fuck up and not be a hero, you will leave here in a few brief moments free to go on about your day. Do we understand each other?”

A few muffled whimpers arose from the small gathering as Shotgun Guy put a round into the ornate plaster ceiling, “You heard the man: are we clear?”

This prompted a more vocal acknowledgment which seemed to satisfy the intruders, at least momentarily.

Lynn, always one to remain idealistic in her optimism, thought to herself, ‘I deal with these types of personalities each day. Maybe if I just attempt to reason with them. Surely they will recognize I’m not a threat, and may even peg me as a school teacher.’

She stood up slowly and turned toward the two men, arms raised and began, “Excuse me, but nobody here wants any trou…,” and before she could get the next word out of her mouth, Shotgun Guy had put a round right between her eyes.

She crumpled to the ground and was dead immediately.

“Anybody else have something they need to get off their chest?!?!”

“Jesus Christ, Jimmy!” cried out Number One, “What the fuck, man??” he yelled in an extreme panic.

Sirens could be heard off in the distance drawing nearer, which prompted their hasty retreat back out the heavy glass front doors, around the corner of the building and they were gone.

Frank heard the blare of multiple police sirens rushing by on the street 6 stories below, and commented to his pal, “It wouldn’t be an average Monday in Lubbock without someone causing trouble first thing, eh D?”

“It sure seems that way, FCIII. People really don’t like to go back to work after the weekend do they?”

Offered this brief respite in their early morning routine, Frank played the voicemail from Lynnette. Man did he love the sound of her voice.

“Hey, baby, it’s me. Nothing major. I meant to mention something before you left, but forgot in my haste. I need you to stop at the grocery on your way home, if you would. We need some milk for the pasta tonight, toilet paper, because you know I ain’t shaking nothing, baby. Oh, and could you pick up one of those rapid result pregnancy tests for me? Well, for us? Okayyyy. Love youuuuuu! Muah.”

It was her way. Her unassuming, tempting, irresistible way. It was one of the myriad of things he adored about her.

He began writing, thinking out loud as he did: “Ok, milk, tp, pregnancy…,” he stopped in his tracks. “Pregnancy test! D she said pregnancy test!”

I knew the struggles this amazing couple had had in the past starting a family together. There had been short lived excitement with several miscarriages, and just general letdown as the months came and went, and nothing good happened for them.

They had sought out fertility specialists, conception and birthing alternatives, and even explored adoption at one point, but nothing had fit quite right in their space and the way they wanted it to happen, so they resolved to wait and let everything play out as fate would have it.

“I hate to get my hopes up, man. I feel like we’ve been down this road a million times. I’m gonna just have to table my excitement until I get a solid thumbs up, either from the doc, or my boy. I’m gonna have a boy, D,” he finished.

“I already know, friend,” I supported the notion. “I wouldn’t allow anything different.”

We decided to spend the remainder of the morning being productive, and vibing to our favorite station, Franklin grinding through one of the longest days of his life, anticipating the sight of his beautiful angel on that magical night. Every night with her was a gift, but this one felt different to Frank.

The DJ was spinning the good shit this morning, apparently sensing the large contingent of working professionals darkening their collective doorways with a case of the Mondays.

We got some Dire Straits, ZZ Top, AIC and Bon Jovi before the DJ  came back abruptly with breaking news: “This just in from Lubbock PD. There has been an attempted robbery at the First National Bank this morning, where one patron was shot and killed. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the family of the victim.”

“The world is a fucked place, D. I just don’t understand people anymore,” Franklin opined.

Immediately after this thought his cell phone rang, “Franklin? Good morning, I’m sorry to bother you. This is Ms. Shirley from Maplewood. You haven’t happened to hear from Lynette recently have you? I was covering for her while she went by the bank to drop off money from the fair this past weekend and she hasn’t shown up,” she said, worry hanging on every word.

“Well, she left me a voicemail a while ago, but that was on my way in. Let me try her and I’ll get back to you,” he replied uneasily.

He texted her first. That was always the first rule during the work day: text first because it’s less conspicuous and can typically generate quicker responses.

He waited several moments but the message was never retrieved.

He pulled her up in his contacts, ‘My Reason’ and pushed send. The line rang 6 times then went to her voicemail: “Babe, it’s me. Just checking in. The school called and said you hadn’t made it in. Let me know when you get there so I know you’re safe. All my love Lynnie.”

“D, I dunno man. Something is off. I think I’m going to call down to the station.”

“Sure, Frankie, sure. Do what you need to do man,” me also with a knot in my stomach as big as the state.

“Lubbock police department, how can I help you?”

“Yes, officer, my name is Franklin Coleman. I know this might sound crazy, but I haven’t heard from my wife since I left for work this morning and she hasn’t made it to school. She’s a teacher over at Maplewood Elementary,” he relayed, unable to hide the anxiety in his voice.

“Yes, Mr. Coleman. One moment. I’ll get detective Dearborn for you.”

“Mr. Coleman, this is detective Dearborn. Would you be available to come down to the precinct?” he asked formally.

“Is she ok? Is my Lynnie ok??” Frank was distraught.

“Mr. Coleman, we really prefer to discuss these matters in person, and will make ourselves available to you all day,” Dearborn calmly responded.

“I’m on my way, detective,” Franklin uttered, barely audible, sensing the inevitable.

I offered to drive him down there and we sped through town, not a word spoken between the two of us.

When we arrived, I threw the car into park, and Frank barreled out the door and toward the building before we had rolled to a complete stop.

He rushed inside screaming, “Detective Dearborn! I need detective Dearborn! Please!”

“I’m here Frank,” he spoke, grimly, from the corner of the room, “Let’s step into the interview room over here for a moment.”

I waited anxiously in the small reception area and, moments later, heard sounds I had never experienced in my 45 years on earth.

It seemed as if the life were being drained from someone on the other side of the door, the moans and unrecognizable elicitations straight out of a horror film.

Dearborn quietly opened the door to the interview room and waved me over, “He wants to see you.”

I entered the room to a shell of the man I had witnessed only minutes prior. The color had left his body, his eyes were swollen and tears flowed, gaining momentum with each passing moment.

“She’s gone, D. It was her,” Franklin barely able to get any intelligible word out. “She was standing up for those people, doing what was right-things she thought and said every day, and they murdered her.”

“Frank.” It was all I could get out until we both collapsed in each other’s arms and wept uncontrollably for what seemed like an eternity.

It was so overwhelmingly sad, the entire scene.

Frank went on bereavement and never came back.

His life was in complete shambles.

He would sit around every day, for months on end, replaying the message, “Hey, baby, it’s me. Nothing major.”

If she only knew just how major it was.

If he only knew.

This was his person. They had done everything right, and had been blessed with a beautiful relationship.

And the autopsy revealed she was indeed pregnant. Eight weeks in fact. He knew she knew but wanted to surprise him because that was her gift: giving.

She would have wanted nothing more than to share the joy of that time with him, just to feel the warmth of his reaction.

Instead, he buried them both.

Frank eventually went back to work with a new company, and tried to become more social again.

We hung out a few times, but it just wasn’t in him.

This went on for the next few years. “Hey, babe, it’s me.”

He just couldn’t bring himself to delete the message, no matter how hard he tried. That would mean he was closing her out of his life for good and he couldn’t bear the thought.

After such a prolonged period, even he didn’t understand why, rationally, he couldn’t let this part go, even when the message became more static, due to the habitual nature of its recalling, than anything meaningful, but he couldn’t face the demons of betrayal.

He wouldn’t.

Slowly his phone became obsolete. There wasn’t near enough memory, and work demands called for an upgrade in its quality and capacity.

He let the representative know how important it was that certain things migrate to the new cell, especially the saved voicemails, and was assured this would be a seamless transition.

Franklin received his new phone, transferred files with the assistance of the rep, and everything seemed to have gone flawlessly: the pictures were all there, videos, a few songs he had left over and a couple files he had pulled over into the new cloud based storage.

Then he went to the voicemails, and they were gone. Nothing at all showing in the storage folder, the number 0 standing out like a flashing red light at a four way intersection under construction.

“This can’t be. I have to have these messages. Especially this one. You don’t understand!” he pleaded with the rep.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Coleman. This is highly unusual, but they are gone.”

“Well, that’s not acceptable. I need that message,” Frank demanded with impenetrable resolve.

He called everyone-the cellular company, the manufacturer, the FCC…someone had to have a plausible answer for why.

He met nothing but roadblocks, and red tape. No one stood up to accept responsibility for this oversight, and fewer cared.

Or so it seemed.

Frank made one last ditch effort to have his wish granted and this small portion of his happiness restored, before he accepted defeat.

He remembered he had jotted down the number and address where he had returned the older model phone, to complete the sale and receive his discount.

What did he have to lose?

It was literally his last hope.

He called the number and a youthful voice answered, in comforting midwestern English even. “This is Simon, how may I help you?”

Franklin laid out his dilemma, with every minute detail. Simon listened intently, and with purpose, and when Frank had finished Simon jumped in, “Mr. Coleman, if I may place you on a brief hold, I’m going to look into something for you. I can’t make any promises, but we received a shipment of returns today and I’m going to check to see if any might happen to be yours. Please understand this is a long shot because these returns and departures are very fluid. I will do my best though.”

Franklin did his best to remain patient-five minutes, ten, fifteen; nothing from Simon.

He couldn’t give up hope now though. He had to see this through to the end.

That, and the music was still playing so he knew what Simon said was probably true and he should just follow direction…and wait.

On minute thirty two of mind-numbing elevator music, there was a click and a familiar voice on the other end, “Mr. Coleman, I think I may have something for you. Does the contact name ‘My Reason’ hold special significance for you?” that smart ass asked rhetorically, feeling pretty goddamned proud of himself right now, which, he had to admit, he was pretty proud of Simon too.

With tears welling up in his eyes, Frank muttered, “Yes, that’s Lynnie. Hold on a second, I want to record this if you don’t mind.”

“That’s why we’re here, Mr. Coleman. Take your time,” Simon answered with some emotional break in his voice as well.

“Ok, Simon, I’m ready,” Frank breathed deeply, and closed his eyes as he exhaled.

“Hey, baby, it’s me. Nothing major. I meant to mention something before you left, but forgot in my haste. I need you to stop at the grocery on your way home, if you would. We need some milk for the pasta tonight, toilet paper, because you know I ain’t shaking nothing, baby. Oh, and could you pick up one of those rapid result pregnancy tests for me? Well, for us? Okayyyy. Love youuuuuu! Muah.”

With tears flowing steadily down the sides of his cheeks now as he lay on his back, he whispered, “I love you too, baby. Both of you. Forever.”

Peace and love,

D

None of us is getting out of this thing alive,

So what gives?

Why do we take ourselves so seriously,

And feel the overwhelming urge to treat others so poorly?

We don’t own these bodies we inhabit;

They are lent to us by He (or something, or someone) who saw fit to give us this gift of life.

A gift you say?

What about curse?

I suppose that depends largely on perspective, but know this:

Everything you work for, that belongs to you?

It’s not going with you.

So why do we spend our lives accumulating that which is fleeting?

The material wealth? Things…

When we could be devoting that same energy to legacy-things that last.

Nobody cares about the objects you’ve procured, and I mean nobody.

If they do, it’s not in the way you want to believe they do.

But people do remember how you treated them, long after you’re gone.

How you made them feel at their lowest, and helped elevate them to their highest.

They recall your friendship, your interpersonal gifts, your intimacy;

Not what car you drove, or where you lived-

Because some things matter,

And most things don’t.

And some things belong to us,

And others take up space in lives that scream “no vacancy” more than not.

So, where is the disconnect?

Where did we lose our faith,

Or find it in the status of the almighty dollar?

We feel as though our time is infinite, and are reminded daily how foolish those thoughts can be, because accidents happen.

Life happens.

And everything gets left behind-

Except who we were,

Not what we “earned.”

Is that a naive view of humanity and the human experience?

You tell me.

Think back, in your time here, as far back as you can remember-

Who clung to anything after,

That which they valued exclusively before?

Ironically enough, many times the lust for the things we cherish are the purpose our demise.

What lesson does that pass to future generations?

We populate a minuscule amount of space here for an even smaller amount of time.

Have you ever heard it said, spiritually, that one hundred years here equals one day in the afterlife?

Most of us haven’t even made it to nap time there,

And yet we are dying, daily, inside and out,

For all the wrong reasons.

I’m not a saint;

Far from it.

But, aging has brought perspective.

Do I still love things about this world?

Absolutely.

Will I still work to achieve better for myself and my children?

Yes.

But the price is different.

The “why” has shifted.

I am more mindful now of how words affect people,

Of how impactful our opinions can be,

And I attempt to be better each day than the last.

Do I always succeed?

Nope. Not even close.

But I pay heed to the reminders when they rear their head, or show their winning hand-

And it brings me back.

With a fury.

And I pray.

To what?

To whom?

It doesn’t matter.

I just need to be heard,

By the someone that deemed me important enough to inhabit this space, for this finite amount of time,

And give me another chance to redeem myself each day.

I’m driven.

I want to be remembered-for some talent, or word, or lyric, or deed;

But it’s much more important that I’ve come here, lived here and died here

For a purpose.

I want to teach,

Learn,

Love,

And give,

As much of myself as humanly possible,

Until I cross over into the next adventure that awaits all of us.

And I want it all to matter,

For who I was, and what I gave

Instead of what I had,

Because that would be utterly forgettable.

Peace and love,

D

Every small town has its myths

And its ghosts

Most pique our interest

More than the host

These are a few

That have settled with me

Shared with top secret pacts

And rural generosity

Legend has it this old bar

Once was owned by a local football star

That there was Nate

Number forty eight

Heard he was great

Lost his life on a date?

Oh yes it’s true, got hit by a car

Now his ashes sit high over there behind the bar

Suspicious circumstances I’d say.

I heard a rumor

That you have seen Bigfoot?

Tis true, he was spotted out yon

By the big root

Seen plain as day

In the bonfire’s soot

Im sorry madam, but don’t you mean root?

No sir, out here in the woods we say root

Don’t have time for all them long vowels and shit.

There’s a farm that is haunted

In Smallville, Ohio?

An old barn, a pasture,

Or rusted grain silo?

Oh yeah, that there is the old Baker place

Kids was messin’ around playing kissy face

Was some grain meant for fattening pigs for the slaughter

Instead got the farmhand and the old farmer’s daughter

Suffocated ‘em real good I reckon.

This stuff is fascinating.

Segue to the local cemetery now

Something about a horse and a cow?

One’s name was Mustard the other was Mayo

Often they’re seen standing guard with a halo?

Oh that them there was the Henderson pets

Couple lived here forever, Mel had Tourette’s

One day he tic’d and old Mustard he kicked

And that spooked poor Mayo, then Mabel was licked

They’re over there now, all four of ‘em. Damned animals prolly got a guilty conscience.

A resident here he keeps a coyote?

Something about chasing a kid with a floatie?

Oh, no, that kid he fell out of my boat

Reached out my oar when I saw the coyote

He looked real lonely so I let him in

Attacked that poor kid took off half of his chin

First it was “root,” now it’s “coyote”

Can’t believe what I’ve heard let alone what I wrote

So, “technically,” Wile E. doesn’t live there.

My favorite of all is the lore of Longfellow

Whose use of the laudanum made him quite mellow

Twas weary from travel and sought out an inn

Just north of Minneapolis, Minn

Good evening Longfellow, greeted the keep

I guess you have covered those miles til you sleep

He looked up and gazed at the fool who can’t see

That was Frost, but I’m flattered you thought it was me

You’re as dumb as the idiot that’s been droning on and on with all this nonsense. Room please.

Peace and love,

D

What is OK?

And when is it alright to be just that, OK?

So much shit is heaped on us from the time we squeeze out of that pinhole and they force us to breathe in this putrid life.

Pound it into us in fact, to initiate our first breath.

And it’s ok to say putrid.

Because, fuck, half the time we find ourselves clawing out from under some unbearable mass that has been choking the life out of us for decades.

Relentlessly and with unrivaled success.

But, why?

Why do we have to be perfect? Why is that the unfathomable expectation we wear like a yoke, pulling futilely against an unbridled weight that refuses to move square wheels affixed to our axles.

Whose idea was this anyway? Imbeciles.

Best intentions are the devil’s candy.

We all want to help, but at times there is no fix, no remedy, no cure…and you just have to accept being cracked or broken.

But if I cry I’m weak.

If I lay in bed and ignore my texts, and calls, and socials, I’m a pariah-and that’s a me problem.

Hell yes it is, and fuck anybody who doesn’t understand.

Sometimes it can all be too much-all of it.

Sometimes we have to wait for the erosion to take place and allow the floods to dry up, and the sun to peer through our walls of torment and share the beauty of the rainbow on the other side.

But people won’t understand.

Again, fuck people.

This is your life.

There is no blueprint.

There has never been another just like yours, and never will again, and sometimes you have to figure that out for yourself and allow everyone else to piss off until it’s time to let them back in.

That’s ok.

You’re working your way back to tolerance, acceptance and, hell, maybe even a little bit of joy. But it has to be on your terms. You have to approve. And there is no “satisfactory” time frame.

The only answer is, when you’re good and goddamned ready.

You have to accept you for you.

Give permission to acquiesce to your flaws-physical, psychological, interrelational.

Pull yourself out of the darkness, scour the demons from your flesh and forethoughts, then allow the light of good intentions to leave their mark on your wounded soul.

It’s not your fault, any of it.

It’s ok. You’re ok.

You don’t see it now, but it’s in you. It’s in all of us, and we owe ourselves the grace of discovery.

There’s joy in the darkness; reach for it.

There’s restorativeness in sadness.

Peel back the layers and witness the healing.

We are stronger than we give ourselves credit for. Be vulnerable, then scream for your vulnerability to get the fuck out of the way.

There is a time and place where there is no more room for the burden of such oppressive negativity.

When you find it, and trust in that discovery, you’ll finally understand it’s OK to be human, constantly working your way back to your own ideals, and you are the maestro of this incomparable symphony of life.

Never give up.

Work back to OK.

Peace and love,

D

Her name was Anna Mae Patterson. Sometimes Annie, sometimes “AMP;” it really just depended on the time and place.

One thing was for sure though-growing up in rural Indiana, very much like the South, every young girl had a middle name that everyone knew, and absolutely everybody used it.

It was somewhere around 1985, or six-years-old, that we first really became aware of one another.

We went to church together, and our parents hung out constantly as part of a quartet of family besties, which pretty much forced us to hang out together.

Her brother was two years younger and mine three years older, and we just kind of gravitated toward one another.

There were other children in the family group, and they were fine, but we just stuck; almost from day one-and especially after she confided in me that she liked to play pretend war and “blow up” her Barbies with her GI Joes and squadron of army men.

Dude, she was so cool, and she was a girl. I was like, ‘No way. This is too good to be true.’

And she was more fun to look at than my other filthy pals, even though I had absolutely no idea why, or why I always felt funny around her.

She was just pleasant to be around.

Anna Mae wasn’t a tomboy per se, as she was always very feminine in public and dressed to the nines, but she wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty either.

We would play in the creek by her house and I would often ask her to go frog gigging.

We would search high and low, splashing water, and throwing an occasional mud cake, until, eventually, we found our prey.

The most amazing thing about those experiences? Annie always insisted on picking up the frogs and holding them out for me to pet, instead of gouge, on the head, fresh from the bank of the creek bed. Not a single one ever met its demise (when she was present).

Never came close as a matter of fact.

There was just something about her demeanor, and character, that made me want to rub the shiny head of those noisy, restless creatures and not lay another ill-fated finger on them.

She was teaching me how to be better, even then.

I was utterly perplexed, but a simple gaze into her soft hazel eyes, with that gentle smile, calmed my world and made me see things differently for the first time.

I still had moments as an adolescent boy. Who are we kidding? But, never with her. We shared adventures that were atypical of my normal behavioral routine, and I looked forward to them more than any.

Over the next few years we invited more friends and families into the clan-enjoyed pitch-ins, went to ball games and had game nights with sleep-overs, and occasionally even allowed others into our “circle of trust,” but it always came back to us-Darren and Anna Mae.

And then she moved away.

It was 1989.

Her father got a big promotion somewhere in Nowhere, Virginia, and they were packed up and moved in less than a month.

It wasn’t fair.

My first real life lesson, as I hadn’t lost anyone close to me, either family or friend, to this point.

And I missed her.

So much.

I wanted to see her so badly at times that my stomach felt funny and my heart would hurt, and when I explained this to my mom she calmly replied, “That just means she was a special friend to you. They were special to all of us. We will always miss them here, but they will remain an important part of our group, and we can visit them now and share more great experiences.”

That cheered me up a little, and we did visit on occasion. And they came back home from time to time, and we always seemed to pick back up where we left off.

We were getting older and she was now cool and pretty, and we always seemed to want to recall the early years, which I sincerely appreciated.

I reminded her on one of our stays of how I learned she was leaving, and insisted that she come to my house dressed up so we could go on a picnic together, and then surprised her with the most beautiful wildflowers from our yard.

She smiled, meeting my eyes while looping her arm through mine as we walked and she confessed to me, “I kept those flowers, D, because I always wanted to remember, although I wasn’t sure what I was trying to keep locked away. I just knew I didn’t want to forget.”

This made my heart warm and sent a sensation running through my body I hadn’t felt before and it embarrassed me initially. But, I was so happy to be in her presence again I let it go.

Just like old times.

Then new times caught up.

The phone calls and letters were less frequent and the visits eventually stopped altogether.

We were in high school now.

Demands on our time were more strict, and we developed separate lives-a very natural occurrence, I have come to understand as I walk through life.

Fast forward to 1997, our senior year.

I had just returned home from baseball practice, and noticed my mother glancing from behind the raised slats of our cheap, dusty, vinyl blinds.

Next thing I knew, she was bounding out the door waving what seemed to be a birthday card, or something similar-but my birthday had been two months prior so that didn’t really make sense.

When she finally reached me and leapt in my path, stopping me in my tracks, she excitedly screamed, “Look! Look, D! It says ‘Patterson,’ and it’s postmarked Nowhere, Virginia! Here! Go ahead, and open it!”

“Mom, it’s ok. It’s been five years. Will another five seconds for me to put down my backpack really matter that much?”

I was trying to play it cool, but I wasn’t fooling anyone. I flung my JanSport halfway across the front yard and ripped the envelope to shreds, littering our yard in the best of ways.

It was a graduation announcement, from Annie. Inside was a handwritten note: “Hi, D. I hope you are well. I’ve missed our adventures over the years, but never forgotten. Some of my friends and I are taking a senior trip to Hilton Head, and I would love for you to come if you are able. Love, AMP”

I whooped and jumped what seemed to be six feet in the air as I handed the announcement back to my mother.

“Mom, I don’t care what we have to do, I want to go on this trip. Please. I’ll never ask you for anything again as long as I live,” I continued to plead my case.

And we did.

And I went.

And, oh my God, she was everything I had imagined, but was incapable of comprehending, all those years ago.

And we fell back in love.

I mean I knew now that that had happened over a decade earlier, but this was different.

This was, ‘Oh, momma’ stuff, not, ‘Hey, what do you say we go climb a tree.’

We had an incredible vacation after graduation, and spent as much time together as humanly possible that summer before departing for college in the fall.

It was magical.

We made plans for a future, and our own “clan.” We talked at length about family, life and careers…and it all made sense.

Too much sense as it turned out.

She went to school at UVA, studied education and became very involved in campus life, as any young coed should.

We met several times, conversed some via email and it was nice.

Disparate, but nice.

Then one day I opened my AOL mail and read the subject line-D Please Read To The End

It was then that I knew.

Our love was real, but it was different. Now life was taking over.

This seemed to always be a theme with us.

The CliffsNotes version of the body was, “I met someone…and he reminds me of you.”

I didn’t have to read much more.

I ripped the keyboard from the pc tower and threw it against the glossy concrete blocks of the dorm room wall, watching as it shattered into innumerable pieces.

I thrashed my arms across the top of my desk, sweeping my monitor and homework onto a throw rug which warmed the cool linoleum flooring underneath, causing sparks to leap from the socket and inviting unwanted guests to my doorway. “I’m fine, go away.”

And I cried.

I didn’t go to class for days.

I stayed in the dark, day and night, burrowed under my covers; roommates and friends alike-concerned but incapable of understanding the loss I was enduring.

I asked all of the questions: What could I have done differently? How could this happen? What if? Why?

Until one day I was done.

I woke up, took a shower, grabbed my gear and headed off for success, with my most patient and supportive friends in tow.

What I realized in those depths of eighteen-year-old grief was that it was still completely possible that Anna Mae was my first love. Hell, it may even be possible she still loved me as I loved her.

But possible plays a bit part in our lives, and probable needs to be a realistic consideration.

I learned many valuable lessons from her from a very tender age, many of which I still apply today.

One is that love is real and love never fails. It may not always render itself in our favor, but that doesn’t make it any less significant.

I’ve never forgotten Anna Mae Patterson, and haven’t spoken to her in decades.

One thing I am certain of-she has touched many lives over the years just as she touched mine.

Character always wins with honesty and I wish her the best finish ever. 🙏

Peace and love,

D

Your eyes bore through me

Like a hot iron bathed in an open flame.

Your touch sets my skin on fire,

Hot coals burning my soul.

Your smile lights up a room,

And enlarges my heart;

In the healthiest of ways,

10 out of 10 doctors would agree.

It’s the dream come true,

For every man.

But how did it happen?

Against such long odds?

The one perfect thing,

Seemingly just beyond your reach.

Grasping with desperation,

Yet there is no need.

For when I open my eyes,

Beads of cold sweat formed on my forehead,

There you are holding me close;

Just as it was intended.

✌️ & ❤️,

D

A walk through the garden,
Bouquets abound.
What was that smell?
A gentle turn at the waist.
Too late for the bouquet.

The baby who soiled his diaper.
Leaving a gentle reminder
Of how shitty the world can be,
And how it’s time for a change.
Whoa.

The vents in the ceiling of your workspace, Involuntarily alerting you to the yeast rising next door;
While you toil in your cubicle,
Trying desperately to make the bread.
I’m starved.

Pulling up to the pump.
The unmistakable aroma surrounding you.
Filling up the tank
And asking what made you decide on Taco Bell?
Gas is expensive.

The earthworm protest
In the middle of your steamy street;
Providing that unshakable waft
Of a fresh Spring rain,
Or rotting smashed carcasses.

The stadium.
Beer, brats, and nachos
Masking the vomit leaking
From the third deck.
From the brats.

Laying you down
On a fresh linen spread.
Mysterious shrouds of sweat, softener and sweet love,
Colliding and absorbed into its pores.
Gotta get dirty to get clean.

Life.
Death.

Peace and love,

D

Everybody gets one chance.

Or is it one plus one?

The lines are blurry.

Could that be a result of the explosion?

Of every memory of a beautifully haunted past being tossed around like a blender?

I hurt all over,

But mostly my soul.

So many what if’s,

Especially now.

What’s next?

Live for today, always.

The sands of time run swiftly for all of us,

And God is the only one with the winning hand.

It was predestined,

If you believe.

Was today the day?

No.

Not yet.

It’s still early.

Chase your dreams.

Hold tight to that which is most important to you,

In those moments that spin like a turbine.

The reaper is just around the corner,

First come, first served.

Peace and love,

D

It’s better to have loved and lost…

What a farce.

Nobody wants to see that.

Seams that burst open,

drowning what used to be palpable emotion.

Who thought this was a good idea?

To feel?

To let someone else inside of you?

Just as vulnerable, themselves, to the open wounds, cuts and scars,

As you?

“But this is life.”

Is it?

The life we choose?

Or our lot?

Who drew the straws in this wager?

I’d like to meet them,

And shake their hand;

For subjecting us to emotions that overpower our senses,

Make us act out of haste,

Cause us to lose control,

And insight into who we really are.

If I were to choose to love again,

I would choose never to lose.

I would choose to handover what’s left of me,

And have it cared for, nurtured, and adored.

Is that possible?

Does it exist?

Am I enough?

I’m still here, so I have to believe.

Right?

D

Prior to my literal bumbling into Amber at the local book chain last month, the only lukewarm interest I’d had in a woman for quite some time was a vixen in the office named Abby Monroe.

She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and predictably was knighted “Marilyn” almost from day one.

That is, until she opened her mouth and that thick, ugly Bahstin accent vomited out of her.

Damn you, woman.

She seemed sweet enough, though, especially in the beginning when all of the radars were up and everyone was in discovery mode.

Guys being guys, we all talked a lot of shit over Happy Hour Shiners, with several recon missions having been run past her cubicle, notes shared and strategies mapped out in the comfort of our inebriation. But nobody, not a single limp dicked soul was willing to go to battle until I emerged from the shadow of my office one atypically pleasant Lubbock summer morning and engaged the young(er) lass in what would eventually become “meaningful conversation.”

Turns out she was 15ish years younger than me and gave zero fucks on the matter.

I sauntered past her work area and smoothly morphed into my best Bill Lumbergh as I reached the opening, “Oh, hi Abby. Didn’t see you sitting there. Big sports fan, huh? That’s greaaaat.”

“Yeah, D. It’s 9:03, here just like every other day trying to make impression. Does it count that I’m also a huge Office Space fan?” She grinned a wide Cheshire grin, managing to catapult me back to reality with a sharp wit and gross tongue.

“Fuck,” I spat under my breath.

Stay cool. Calm. Composed.

“So why all the Boston decor? You as big a front runner as you are a dedicated employee?” My brain completely shutting down and searching desperately for the nearest form of life support.

To her credit, Abby didn’t really let loose the accent unless she was starting to get agitated. This was her sign that territory had been marked and you were about to go down.

“I’m act-u-ally frum theh, ya know?” She began, eyes turning red, pupils dilated and quite veiny. “Pahk tha cah? How you like dem apples? That’s me, just an ignorant transplant from the northeast,” she hissed, literal flames exploding from her mouth. I swear it.

“Idiot,” again inaudible but no less obvious.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean any offense. I saw the Sox pennant hanging on your bulletin board and thought I’d try to break the ice, not actually fall through it.”

This made her laugh, and answer like a normal human.

“That’s ok, D. Just having a little fun myself,” she continued, instantaneously both charming and thawed. “I love the Sox. Try to see them every year, somewhere, especially in Fenway.”

“Well, it just so happens that I am a Rangers fan and the Sox are coming to Arlington next month. I wanted to see if you’d like to go. I know a guy,” I countered with more sincerity than one-upmanship, my pulse finally falling below defcon one.

“Oh, I would love that! Thank you for thinking of me, D,” she shrieked with the enthusiasm of an 18-year-old on prom night.

‘Oh, yeah, that was a tough one,’ thought to no one. “It’ll be fun. I’ll keep you posted,” I said instead.

And so began our situationship.

For the next month we would visit the taco truck on occasion for lunch, or I would ditch the boys for Happier Hour with Abby, and she was great. And, to a man, they all knew they had screwed the pooch on this deal.

We never talked about anything terribly personal, just kept it light, found our vibe and ventured toward a charming arrangement, coming tantalizingly close to replacing the ‘situ’ with ‘rel.’

Then it was game night.

I picked her up at her place, and she was stunning, except for that stupid fucking Nomar Garciaparra jersey.

We exchanged pleasantries, a brief hug and kiss on the cheek the manner of calling this evening.

She shot me a sideways glance as I denied her affection, explaining to her that there would be no lip rubbing until that shirt was off of that body (exaggerated finger wag for effect).

She giggled, I opened her door and we headed off down the highway, her blaring her favorite band, making a succinct nod to her geographical shortcomings…Boston.

I wish I could say I hated it but, instead, I stared straight ahead and cocked my crooked grin.

We arrived at the ballpark, hit the concession stand, snagging our Wednesday night “steal”: hot dog, box of popcorn and 16 oz beer, only $24.99.

I’ll take✌️.

We found our seats in left center, row 1 of “home run alley,” and settled in with talk of the season, the stadium, and the Jumbotron-bigger than some homes I’ve lived in.

The beer was cold and flowing, the game was tight and energetic, going back and forth, nobody wanting to win or lose on that night.

Then the 7th inning happened.

The Rangers were clinging to a two run lead; the first batter reached on an error, then the second got plunked in an overmatched AB with an 0-2 count.

Now, with runners on first and second and no outs, Willson Contreras stepped in nursing what was purported to be a nondescript lower back issue.

That became evident when he worked the count to 3-2, then launched an absolute missle off of a 98 mph seed, coming right toward our section.

As it became more evident that this moment may actually involve some reflexology on our part, the first four rows sprung into action.

The clamoring was predictable, and riotous notion of the enemy sneaking into our territory to retrieve what was now about to turn into a three run dinger, was unthinkable.

Yet, there she was…Abby. All 5’4” New England attitude of her, front and center, ready to pounce on anyone who stood in her way. And, wouldn’t you know it? When the dust settled, and the moans of dejection subsided, she had managed to come up with her prized possession: a home run ball, hit by her team, giving them the lead late in the game.

She was giddy with excitement, shaking the ball up and down, screaming with joy, just like that 18-year-old back in the day.

We watched the replay on the aforementioned Jumbotron and it was better the second and third time.

The natives patted Abby on the back, high-fiving her for her achievement, which I’m sure had more to do with spotting themselves on the big screen, but no one cared.

Hell, even the beer vendor poured her one on the house.

Eventually the top half of the inning ended, mercifully, with the Red Sox tallying 5 total runs and, as the 7th inning stretch wound down after bellowing a buzzed “Take Me Out To The Ballgame”, they started panning the audience with the kiss cam.

There were cute old couples excitedly loosening dentures, a few dates caught off guard, an obvious familial pair causing great angst in the female, understandably unacceptable in these parts, when they arrived at the last couple who seemed to have been prepping for this moment for some time.

When the camera stopped on their faces, with Abby, myself and 40,000 of our closest friends dying in laughter, she froze as this dude threw his thigh over the woman’s seat and put his tongue so far down her throat she probably felt it in her tender parts.

The crowd was mixed in its reception-some roared, many groaned and a few even lost their liquid dinner (which is a real bummer in this economy). But Abby? She merely stood up, handed me the ball and asked me to look after it while she went to use the restroom.

The eighth inning passed with no sign of Abby.

Then the top of the ninth. Three up three down.

No answer on her phone.

In the bottom of the ninth the Rangers staged a two out rally to seal an astounding comeback victory.

What a game!

No answer to, “Did you fucking see that?!”

As fans filed out I remained in my seat for approximately another 15 minutes or so before heading for the concourse.

I walked one complete lap in a building which had cleared out for the most part, stopping once to ask a member of security if they had seen the cute blonde in the Garciaparra jersey. He shrug me off and kept walking.

What in the world?

I decided to head for the car and wait. Maybe she just got sick and was there recovering.

I hit my key fob setting off the familiar tweet letting me know the car was unlocked, which surely would have spooked her, but no Abby.

I started it up and turned on the air and tried her again: straight to voicemail.

After another 30 minutes had passed I decided to head home. It was late and I would deal with it in the morning.

I wasn’t sure whether to be worried, anxious, or angry-only that she was a mature woman, I had done what I felt I could to find her and would regroup when I woke up.

The next day I tried her a few more times, contacted a few of her friends who had not heard from her, then decided to head into work roughly an hour late.

When I arrived I went immediately to her cubicle and everything seemed normal, except for the fact that every piece of her memorabilia had been removed or taken down.

No one had seen nor heard from her. It was as if she had never been here.

And we never heard from her again, until one day several months later, in the fall, as the playoffs were ramping up, I received a text out of the blue: “Congrats on your comeback win. Take care of my ball.” ~ Abby

And that was that.

I kept the ball which sits on my mantle as a conversation starter.

And then there was nothing for the longest time.

And now there is Amber.

She hates baseball.

Thank God.

D

In the beginning…

Every Good Book starts this way

He was perfect

It was perfect

His touch was like the tiny ripples on a mirrored lake

Making me feel his strength

Over and over,

Then over again.

His heart was tender and fractured

Worn and torn

Between years of “love” and abuse

So fragile

But prepared for the mending

That I begged to offer

With my figurative needle and thread.

And so it began

So young

So much in LOVE

Everything would be ok this time

He was mine now.

We recited our vows

It was a magical time

Until the trick was revealed

A magician never tells.

The golden rule.

Love stopped paying the bills

And sharing the bed

At least in the way he used to share it with me back then.

This must be the progression?

Life catching up

Smiling the crooked smile that reminds us

This is a marathon

Not a sprint.

Young fools.

And concession is left in its wake

As it continues past us

Moving at a steady pace

While we gasp for air.

His heart,

My heart

Beating in a knowing rhythm

Never too up,

Never too down

Steady

Like the hands of a skilled surgeon

Saving another life.

He was good to me

I adored that about him.

He took care of our family

Yes, family

There were five of us now

This is the way it was written.

More progression.

Nuclear, not nucular

Why can’t people get that right?

We were happy

When the sun shone on us all

It was the nights that remained lonely

And cold

The temperature ideal for most, aesthetically,

Except for two souls hardening

Under the weight of their own ideals.

Things change

People change

It’s the acceptance that pushes us

One direction or another

Which path should we choose,

Or have chosen?

I’m older now

The Revelation of my choices

Written on ceramic mugs

And hanging on walls.

He’s gone

He’d been absent for some time

Wait, that’s not fair

I can’t lay that blame at his doorstep.

We

We were a team

Most of the time

Then time ran out.

Oh, he didn’t leave us

He would never

His family meant more to him than anything

He just refused to remain alive.

Goddamn him.

Now I’m left with pictures of a life

Loved…

Well?

Processed in a journal

Recounted over morning routines

And visions that never leave

My soul.

Perspective is key

What do you want?

What do you need?

I don’t see the ripples anymore

Only choppy wake

And dry, thirsty beds

Where that indomitable strength

And spirit

Once took up residence.

How selfish of me

To want more

To need more

Time

To figure it all out

I’m supposed to, right?

Figure it out?

I sit now

Another day breathing, moving on, unphased

While I hold my breath

Deep inside

Writing briskly

Before my lungs explode

Asking the questions

Where answers lain dormant for so long.

“Was I married?

Yes.

Were we roommates?

Oh, yes.

Was it worth it?”

I know the answer

I’d better

Because He isn’t saying anymore.

D

V1

You used to bring me flowers

Every morning

I’d set my clock

And you’d be standing there

But that last time

It came without a warning

Now life is more

Most times than I can bear

C

You don’t come by anymore

Say the grooves in my front door

Painted over where the knocking

Once bore signs

And those palm prints on my heart

Claiming you right from the start

As the person that I’d one day

Make my wife

V2

One day you didn’t show up

Like you’d planned it

That clock it suddenly

Stopped keeping time

And it was then

That I was forced to see it

This breath is ours but

This is not our life

C

You don’t come here anymore

Say the grooves on my front door

Painted over by the memories

That are mine

And those palm prints on my heart

Battered, bruised and torn apart

On that day that you were

Taken from my life

B

This isn’t fair

We came so close

You are the one

I loved the most

Why can’t He see it

And why does He not care?

That I’m for you

And you’re for me

It’s not that hard

It’s plain to see

But life it doesn’t wait

on anyOnnnneee.

FC

And you don’t come by anymore

I’m left weeping on the floor

And you’ll always be

My One for everrrrr morrrrre…

For as long as I can remember, Twin and I, or Tone as I have introduced him to you previously, have enjoyed spending random off Saturdays at Barnes & Noble wandering through the MILF Market.

Brother Shane, never having truly mastered the art of literacy, rarely joins us on these excursions, but he is always invited nonetheless.

His constant refrain, “Why would I wanna waste a day in a bookstore when most of the books don’t even have pictures in them,” hanging in the air like a really dense fog.

Fair though it may be, that one just doesn’t touch grass all that often and it shows.

At any rate, this past Saturday, Tone and I piled into the dually and headed for the hub of single women, divorced moms and daughters everywhere…the book, magazine, music and miscellaneous mega store.

It was a beautiful Sprimmer day (in Texan meaning the weather is noncommittal to being Spring or Summer), and the troops were out en masse.

There were young, old, fit, rail thin, thicc, manufactured and natural, of nearly any race you can dream of, and they were all engrossed in their own particular niche’-i.e. the section with the greatest odds at landing a whale without starring in a Netflix docuseries titled, “Should I Wed And Take a Chance At Becoming Dead?”

For the first time in the six or so odd years we had been making these mini treks, Tone noticed the “Lesbian Lit” section almost immediately.

His eyes grew big as saucers, and when he began his ascent on this little cozy corner of the shop, I immediately redirected him with, “Son, it sounds magical, but trust me, it ain’t what you think it is. It’s just a whole lot of nonsense about lumberjacks and U-Haul‘s, and that shit ain’t entertaining at any age.”

“OK, cool dad. I’m gonna head over to check out the veiny balls. I love that section. They’re so funny, and none of them bounce right, ever,” he responded with the naive innocence of a 12-year-old boy, having immediately forgotten about the dreams that pitch tents in the dead of night.

“Hey, dad? Can I ask you something?” he voiced before darting off in search of the perfect ball.

“Sure Tone. What is it?”

“Well, I really love our trips here when we can come, because there’s always lots of pretty girls and stuff, but do you ever get tired of just being with me?”

“What do you mean, son?” I replied back, confused. “I love our time together.”

“Yeah, I know. But I want you to be happy all the time, like with a woman and stuff,” he managed. “I know it hurt a lot when mom left you for that tall, skinny dude from the carnival with the meth mouth and all. I mean, do you think you will ever find someone that can make you really happy and love you more than mom did, and love us too?”

Like that he was gone, the ADHD in his genetic profile taking a firm hold of his slight physical stature.

And left me standing in the middle of the store no less, mouth agape, pondering a lot of those questions, but, more-so, how this one ever became so soulful and wise.

I scanned several aisles in search of anything new from my favorite authors, smiling and politely waving when simple manners required, but mainly keeping to myself.

A brief trip thru the vinyl section and I decided to grab a latte while I waited to hear the recounting of how mini me had discovered the meaning of life in a rickety bin of overpriced rubber orbs.

As I sipped my super sweet, scalding hot, double shot, hazelnut espresso supreme whatever, checking my socials for the tenth time in an hour, he came bounding back over waving his arms wildly above his head.

Twenty years ago, complete societal paralysis would have been my immediate overreaction, but today I really don’t give a fuck what anybody thinks.

“Dad look! Look what I found! A fidget spin…,”unable to complete the last sentence because, at that moment, he tripped over his size 10 shoe on the molding separating the carpet in the Land of Literacy, and the tile in the Eden of Excess and this thing that looked like a miniature version of spinner rims lifted off of a 1:24 scale Revell ‘89 Caprice model car went whirling through the air directly above my head.

I reached up futilely, grasping for the shiny UFO and lost my balance, saving the coffee by slamming it down on the cheap Parisian cafe inspired wrought iron(ish) table, but crashing to the floor with my chair and pride sliding off in different directions.

“Oh my!” Came a sweet, gentile cry. “Here there me get that for you,” our two hands reaching down to retrieve this prized relic for my youngest and last(?).

As I glanced up to say thank you, with the touch of the softest hands I can ever recall being in contact with mine, I was overcome by the most beautiful face and broad smile I had seen in years.

“Here you go…”

“Uh, Tone, er, Tony. Yeah, Tony,” Twin answered with the screech of an adolescent who isn’t quite sure he’s ready for puberty.

“Here you go, Tony. I’m Amber,” she purred. I swear, like a fucking cat.

As she turned in my direction, and our eyes met, I managed something uber congenial like, “Hi, I’m D.”

She touched my hand for the second time in minutes, this time shaking it warmly, purring yet again, “Hi, D.”

“Wow Dad,” was all Tone had left for us as he sprinted off in search of new adventure and fortune, my face now red as a fire truck.

Wow indeed.

“Care to sit?” I invited, hoping to God he had just bestowed the miracle of miracles on my sinful stammering self.

“I would love to. Thank you for offering. What’re you drinking?” She asked with genuine sincerity.

I answered her, eventually; about that and a variety of other subjects.

And it was enjoyable, and interesting, some of it even deeply moving.

And it made me happy.

At one point, out of the corner of my eye, I caught Tone grinning that knowing grin that screams, ‘Don’t fuck it up, Dad.’

Sometimes fate deals you Aces.

And futures can become bright again.

Here’s to all the good in life.

Peace,

D

V1

I would have given you my world

But now I’ve nothing left to give

Mistakes that boiled in consequence

Unable to forgive

My tears that filled the oceans

Dried up like desert sands

Remorse that shakes me to the core

Belie these steadfast hands

C

Where did it all go wrong

What should I have done?

Placed my trust in all of you

From the dawn to setting sun

We called it fate

And destiny

What we shared

From two as one

Now all that’s left is memories

From the dawn to setting sun

V2

We strolled along that winding road

Together hand in hand

Not bothering which way to go

Trusting only in yes we can

Maybe that is where mistakes were made

And complacency set in

I see now I took you for granted

And that losing you was a sin

C

Where did it all go wrong

What should I have done?

Placed my trust in all of you

From the dawn to setting sun

We called it fate

And destiny

What we shared

From two as one

Now all that’s left is memories

From the dawn to setting sun

B

Our lives came to a crossroads

Different people you and me

You went this way and I went that

In the end said, “Let it be.”

But I cannot relive those days

It tears my heart in two

Cause I know you were meant for me

And I was born for you

FC

We called it fate

And destiny

What we shared

From two as one

Now all that’s left is memories

From the dawn to setting sun

From the dawn to setting sun

From the dawn to setting sun

I Love You

I’ve spent quite a bit of time constructing my persona for Substack in an effort to let you all know who I am.

I’ve taken a stab at short stories, covering both serious and introspective topics, as well as attempts at humor, from real life experiences and stupid fictional shit that enters my brain but refuses to locate the fire escape.

I’ve dabbled in poetry, breaking lots of rules along the way, but always trying to be thought provoking; many times with a bridge, chorus, the whole nine included at no extra charge. This is what I’m most proud of, by the by, the song writing.

But, what butters the bread, and pays the bills for the endless hours I spend pouring through socials to find original content for all of my free followers and subs…are memes.

Now, for those uneducated on the subject Ima give you a free lesson here today.

My dime.

Memes are meant to be funny, at least the majority of the time within the context of the Substack community.

The Google will even tell you:

A meme (/miːm/ meem) is a unit of cultural information—such as an idea, behavior, or style—that spreads from person to person within a culture, often through imitation. [1, 2]

In the digital age, a meme is more specifically defined as a humorous image, video, piece of text, or GIF that is copied and spread rapidly by internet users, often with slight variations.

Now, what The Google doesn’t conform to is the notion that a meme is a national headline, historic in nature, or relating to current events-only that the goal is to gain viral popularity, and be humorous in nature. That’s all.

Easy peasy.

Or so you would think.

Because, there is an infectious faction in our midsts-what many might refer to as “trolls”, for the purposes of context and simplicity of reference.

I choose to refer to these people as The Meme Destroyers.

This group of super hero villains typically consists of those with the following characteristics:

-Have between 2-10 followers, the majority of which are all related, especially in states like Kentucky, Alabama and West Virginia.

-Are over the age of 30 and still live at home in their wife/mom’s basement, or adjacent double wide, and listen for the familiar clang of the cowbell when their undercooked Swanson’s Salisbury Steak frozen dinner is ready, which they are “allowed” to retrieve at the top of the stairs, or rusted out wrought iron steps to the trailer with a proper thirty count.

-Are perpetually unemployed

-Left school after graduating 6th grade, listening to their brother/father tell them this is as good as life gets, and believing them because of the chronically late chromosome attending the DNA party.

-Are extremely fun at any party.

The leaders of these groups are the ones chosen by the remainder of the clan for displaying a lesser degree of ignorance (these are typically tightly contested races), and spout off rebuttals to anything you post without having the intellectual wherewithal (look it up) to perform a basic search on its designated poster, if not author.

Another pro tip: 99.99999 percent of the time, the person risking everything to put out this content had nothing to do with its origins.

Time, fate, circumstances, occasionally history, nostalgia, tastelessness and, yes, even, *gasp*, sex often do.

So, when I’m asked by The Meme Destroyers who I think I am, and am confronted with accusatory tones and adolescent name calling, it brings me profound joy to let them all know:

I’m simply a man showing up every day, with my guitar, emotions, authenticity, questionable taste, slippery morals, introspection and, in rare instances, humor.

What I am absolutely not doing under any circumstance is puffing up my droopy chest and posturing over some stupid political ideology, on which the proverbial tables will turn in another 2 years.

So, I would encourage you all to don your super hero villain blue dresses, grab your arsenal of tissues, and lotion, and cum armed to fight because, yes, we are aware the Clintons aren’t innocent of anything, you fucking twat waffles.

But, are you aware your wife/mom left your dinner in the aluminum foil when she started the microwave before she left to hitchhike down to the Qwik Pik and secure her carton of great value smokes, and lucky seven lottery scratch off winners, over 10 minutes ago?

That’s who I am, bitch.

✌️

D Watts