Summer blush

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‘She was jet-black slick, piercing blue eyes Black Irish’

“The Vast Landscape” is not a book, it’s my sacred truths. The poignant, gut-wrenching 50,000 word love letter to myself. A birth. The restorative breath, choppy inhale and liberating exhale one only understands from their monumental mistakes, regrets, joys and pains.

“Georgia Pine” is the excruciating reality of the tedious average that happens somewhere in the middle. The horrible understanding that your parents will die, you will indeed follow and there is more pain in this one life than imagined. It’s the realization that you do not have enough time or too much to fix all the unfixable.

In the works…

“EverGreen” is no longer about you or me, perhaps it never was. Nature belongs to the knots on the tree trunks and the brief cycles we visit. The old woman staring down at swollen, purple veined hands that hold all the love and regret in arthritic, curled fingers. She is me fifty years from now, saying hello and good-bye from a solitary, vacant room gazing out the chipped, cracked windowpane. Whittling away the wee hours.

THE VAST LANDSCAPE is not a Trilogy for me, but a life come full-circle.

If given the choice, how would I choose this life.

If given the choice would I ask God for a small favor?

Go easier on me this time around, just a tiny request.

In utero we map out our time here from the precise moment we breathe in,

and into whose arms we begin.

Choose well, he tells me choose well.

I chose love how could I possibly go wrong?

Love hurts, he says.

Next time I’ll choose smarter, richer, better.

Who am I kidding, next time I’d choose the very same.

And live it again.

So, are we done?

Not quite, he whispers.

Can we get to this thing called living, forever impatient?

You are.