My own flesh and blood

I stand beside the man as he constantly adjusts the focal point of his eyes. He leans in to tell me, what the rest of his body is letting me know is a secret, but only whispers unintelligibly and appears disappointed. He walks away five paces and looks disgusted with me, but I cannot figure out why. It is Christmas Day, but he has denied the meal, the stocking, and only hesitantly acquiesces to the card. I get the sense that he will either lose it or give it to someone else, but I know I won’t be allotted enough time to find out. He is convinced that the giant vehicle has just left with my own flesh and blood tied near the steering column. He asks me if I am going to do anything about it besides just stand there and let it happen. I politely let him know that I am not related to anyone on the vehicle which just served hundreds, but then left with a skeleton crew. He becomes more visibly, shall we say ashamed at my denial of my own flesh and blood. Perhaps the man is malnourished and, as a result, mentally ill. Perhaps, just perhaps he is aware of something deeper that I am missing, and can’t for the life of me understand. More slurred words. More gibberish. More whispers from a dark source crying for help in a different language. Perhaps the fairy dust will come my way eventually. Perhaps I will run into him again along the American river. On this day of the prospective savior’s celebrated birth, I am utterly lost. This city built around loaves and fishes does not seem as though it is a pretend set. It looks and feels and smells like the utterance of a small child’s nightmare cast in natural sunshine, under the beneficence of a relatively peaceful Segway to a different dream. But, very real. The despondency and resentment I have can be let go for the purpose of growth. I can learn his language, and untie my flesh and blood. I can circle back to the statue of the bear pawing at the water gathering the elderly ladies who are obviously steeped in prayer. Where do I go from here? How can I breathe the same? Tomorrow may be another tale to witness or tell. I had better get my rest.

About SIDEWAYS EIGHT

Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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