In the town where I was born, dear sir or madam, day after day, alone on a hill, when I was younger, so much younger than today, I woke up, got out of bed, though I’ve had a drink or two and I don’t care.

We were talking about the space between us all, longer than the road that stretches out ahead, there beneath the blue suburban skies, and I’ve got nothing to say but it’s OK — it took me so long to find out, and I found out.

Half of what I say is meaningless, but it never really mattered — I will always feel the same. Doing the garden, digging the weeds — who could ask for more? I know I’ll often stop and think about them; isn’t it good? I wouldn’t mind if I knew what I was missing.

And the band begins to play; it’s certainly a thrill. Didn’t anybody tell her? If you want me to, I will. 

Published by WarrenBluhm

Wordsmith and podcaster, Warren is a reporter, editor and storyteller who lives near the shores of Green Bay with his wife, two golden retrievers, Dejah and Summer, and Blackberry, an insistent cat. Author of It's Going to Be All Right, Echoes of Freedom Past, Full, Refuse to be Afraid, Gladness is Infectious, 24 flashes, How to Play a Blue Guitar, Myke Phoenix: The Complete Novelettes, A Bridge at Crossroads, The Imaginary Bomb, A Scream of Consciousness, and The Imaginary Revolution.

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