A Little Bit Of Sunshine

Forecast : laundry day No, that's not a metaphor for washing my troubles away Though I wish it were that easy.  Instead I'm washing clothes. Or truthfully, watching my mother do it.  Like she did with her mother  And her mother before her Don't be mistaken, there's no poetry to it It's grueling work.  Bruised knuckles, aching back Under the unforgiving sun.  Lugging baskets of clothes to hang on the washing line.  Still, as I watch the fluid movement of her hands..  The occasional flick of the wrist.  I think, what a gift.  There are no cameras to capture her technique, no ceremony or flowers. I seldom hear the words I love you  in my home But every week at the foot of my bed Lies a perfectly folded stack of clothes.  And I think of my mom, resting her feet after a day's work done.  I whisper to myself, Close enough. 

Forecast : a new dawn Was it just a week ago that I wrote about my birthday wish? Though I duck my head and avert my gaze at the thought, it weighed so heavily upon me at the time. I must maintain my dignity as the face of this blog at all times, but a few tears were involved. I want to feel loved and appreciated, just like anyone else. But if my very world's collapsing at the thought, something uglier is at play.  Pride? Entitlement? A charmed life?  I've clearly got some growing up to do.  At least my timing's impeccable.  It's just a day, really. Twenty four hours, a single rotation of the Earth...just like all the others.  Upon reflection, I'm most thankful to be able to see this day with my loved ones above all gifts and magic tricks. Though I will accept the latter with enthusiasm.  Here's why I won't delete the post in question :  Growth.  Might I point out, once again, such perfect timing . 

Forecast: near sunset After careful examination, I've determined that I have a heavy case of the human condition. The ugly thing that lay dormant in each of us, kept hidden under civilization and clothing.  Right now it makes no effort to hide, peering at me with cruel intention. And it's in this instance that I realize its face is my own. The imaginary line I made between beast and man is translucent. I find myself falling over it more often than I prefer. It's not what you want to hear, is it? That the only difference between yourself and the worst person alive is but a series of choices, a nudge...just the right amount of pressure. I do not kill. I do not steal. But in me was such promise. The same promise held in every manner of beast, awakened or asleep. Was I fool enough to think myself better because I didn't answer its call? I did not kill. I did not steal. But I tensed, I ground my teeth. I very near howled at the moon. How could I call myself good? How could I