Beep continued

I stand at the check-in station just inside the main entrance, the guard holds up a hand to stop me as they push off their stool to stand. She grabs an infrared thermometer and points it at my head. It makes me think of the famous Vietnam War photo of the soldier pointing a gun at a young man's head. The thermometer beeps, she squints while reading the display before announcing I have passed or I am fine, not sure what it is called. I ask about the results and she says 98 degrees. Now I am humming Because of You by 98 Degrees, both surprised and ashamed of it. The standard covid questions follow before I am given a pass granting access - a simple yellow sticker with today's date written with a Sharpie. I thank her and make my way to the elevator bank, pressing six, stepping inside and waiting for the doors to close. Everything seems so deliberate. As usual, a brief panic overwhelms me while contemplating being trapped in the elevator before there is a beep and the doors slide open. I step into an empty hallway, looking over my shoulder, watching the doors close. I silently read the sign to myself "Palliative Care", nodding to the nurse before strolling down the long, mahogany lined hallway. I drag my hand against the wall and wonder what focus group or study led to the dark wood atmosphere and decorations. Does it justify the cost? Is the wood calming? Is it easier to accept the inevitable in a ski lodge type surrounding? I find room 620 and stand at the door, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open and entering. A faint rhythmic beep reverberates around the room, the only monitoring device in use. I cannot shake the sense of finality. The shell of the man who helped create me lies in the middle of the bed - covers piled on and wrapped around the shrunken body. His jaw is open, uneven breathing, death is near or that is what they told me two days ago when I was asked (forced?) to make the "pull the plug" decision. Everybody told me it was the right thing to do (after I did it), but none of them would make it. We stood in the hallway that day, all eyes seemingly on me - waiting. Now, all I can think is that I made the decision to kill him. I wince at the irony of making that decision many times over the years. I slide the chair close to the bed and sit, placing his boney hand in mine and gently rub. I read somewhere that touch is important for healing and when spending time with the sick and elderly. Then again, there is nothing healing about this situation, so I am probably not correctly remembering anything. I feel self conscious, I lean back in the chair and survey the room. Upon reflection, this is probably the first time I have touched his hand since I was a kid. We were or are not the family of closeness and touching or any type of healthy communication. There was that fight when I was in my twenties, but no hand holding, just swinging. It feels weird that it makes me smile. Everybody loves to to retell the bad stories, but there were good times. I survey the frail body, shaking my head as I remember how safe he made me feel - a tear rolls down my cheek. I sit and let more flow, finally grabbing a tissue and drying my face. I take a deep breath and lean very close to him while placing his hand in mine again. I whisper to him, tell him I do love him and appreciate everything and forgive the bad. I swallow hard, looking around again to make sure nobody can hear me (but him), and apologize for telling the doctors to halt further efforts to fix him. I explain what they told me, they said it was hopeless. I stop and silence swallows us, I wonder if there is a chance the doctors were wrong. The silence (and darkness) is pierced by the door opening, I look up and watch the nurse enter and approach me. She pats my back, expressing her sorrow as I slowly realize the beeping is gone, he is gone. I look at her and back at him, there are no more tears, just realization. I stand and thank her, walk to the door while retrieving my cell phone. I look back as she disconnects the wires. I expect to see her cover him with a sheet, but no. I guess I watched too many police shows. I pull up my sister's number and press dial, it rings as I lean against the mahogany wall and stare down at the floor.

Simple Joys of Life

Discussion: It is an interesting piece, but I admit that I struggle with it - from mimicking it to fully understanding. It makes me wonder if the memory of the items and situations is the beauty and not the actual things. Can we find beauty in everything/anything? The repetition with the field mouse seems out of place as not used elsewhere in the piece, but it spans life with the first line covering death and the third showing birth. The gentle rain on a hot Summer day. Walking slowly, enjoying the raindrops, a reprieve from the heat. Birds dancing on the sidewalk in the aftermath, making their own bird bath. A warm mug of tea, honey and lemon infused. Bringing it to my lips while preparing a quick breakfast - who would think I would actually like avocado toast? Watching the birds from the kitchen window as they circle and dance on the feeder, mentally identifying as many as I can. The smile and giggles of my grandson as he wakes me early in the morning. I pull him into the bed as we talk in a whisper about whatever pops in his head, holding him close, cherishing the moment. He cracks the eggs as I warm the griddle for Sunday pancakes - our ritual. Feeling the dirt between my fingers, placing the flowers in the ground, patting the ground before spreading mulch. The gentle breeze as I water the fresh flower bed. Sitting on the porch, watching the sun set as another summer is upon us. A good song, transported to another time and place - dancing with mamaw; singing with my sister; jamming with my brother; showing her I am worthy, so many journeys. I hum one of my favorites while working. The surprise of water flowing down my back as another water "fight" begins with the little one. Balloons filled and thrown, water guns quickly emptied until tired of their temporary usefulness and grabbing the hose to cover everything in water. Gathering with friends and family, sharing stories. The laughter is cathartic as we reminisce on both good and bad times, reflecting on those no longer with us. Sitting at the kitchen table as mamaw fixes chili. I sit on my special stool as she tells stories with the occasional song. She is in her element, loves cooking and family. She places grilled cheese in front of me - the crust cut off, and kisses my forehead. The engine springing to life with the turn of the key, wiping the steering wheel with the rag. Slamming the door, leaning against the door, swallowing the water and wiping my forehead - admiring my handiwork, another job done. Arriving at the ballpark, watching the ground crew prepare the field. Players playing catch in the outfield, the sun slowly setting. Anticipating the first pitch when there still are no winners or losers, the sound of the ball hitting the leather. The sound of water lapping against the boat, reaching for an old stump on the bank to secure the rope - secure the boat. The nearby trees providing comfort with their shade. We settle back and pull out the fishing poles, Dad points at a good location for my line. I laugh as he shares stories, loving this time together. Why couldn't it always be this way? Sharing knowledge, teaching others, urging them to avoid your mistakes and be better, get farther. Teaching skills leading to self-sufficiency. Admiring the results and their successes. The smell of a baby, wrapped tightly in their blanket, holding and listening to their coos and ahs - wondering if he will call me Pop Pop like his brother. Looking forward to watching him grow. The few weeks leading to Christmas. Everyone is cordial and there is so much to do. Admiring the decorations, sitting, listening to holiday tunes the day before it is all over. Her smile after a long day, chasing the worries of work from my head. An embrace and laughter, sitting, sharing, adding to our memories and the reminder of what is most important.

Beep

Discussion: The twist in the story is quite a surprise as we're reading along with a feel good father/daughter tale. The story shows the effects, the trauma, of such poor parenting and the abandonment. Rachel clearly wants her father's approval, we all want that (need?) from our parents. I stand at the check-in station just inside the main entrance, the guard instructs me to stop while standing. She grabs an infrared thermometer and points it at my head. It makes me think of the famous Vietnam War photo of the soldier pointing a gun at a young man's head. The thermometer beeps and she squints while reading the display before proclaiming me fine. I ask about the results and she says it was 98 degrees. Now I am humming Because of You by 98 Degrees, both surprised and ashamed that I know it. The standard covid questions follow before I am given a pass granting access - a simple yellow sticker with today's date written with a Sharpie. I thank her and make my way to the elevator bank, pressing six, stepping inside and waiting for the doors to close. Everything seems so deliberate. As usual, a brief panic overwhelms me while contemplating being trapped in the elevator before there is a beep and the doors slide open. I step into an empty hallway, looking over my shoulder, watching the doors close. I silently read the sign to myself "Palliative Care", nodding to the nurse before strolling down the long, mahogany lined hallway. I drag my hand against the wall and wonder what focus group or study led to the dark wood atmosphere and decorations. Does it justify the cost? Is the wood calming? Is it easier to accept the inevitable in a ski lodge type surrounding? I find room 620 and stand at the door, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open and entering. A faint rhythmic beep reverberates around the room, the only monitoring device in use. I cannot shake the sense of finality. The shell of the man who helped create me lies in the middle of the bed - covers piled on and wrapped around the shrunken body. His jaw is open, uneven breathing, death is near or that is what they told me two days ago when I was asked (forced?) to make the "pull the plug" decision. Everybody told me it was the right thing to do (after I did it), but none of them would make it. We stood in the hallway that day, all eyes seemingly on me - waiting. Now, all I can think is that I made the decision to kill him. I wince at the irony of making that decision many times over the years. I slide the chair close to the bed and sit, placing his boney hand in mine and gently rub. I read somewhere that touch is important for healing and when spending time with the sick and elderly. Then again, there is nothing healing about this situation, so I am probably not correctly remembering anything. I feel self conscious, I lean back in the chair and survey the room. Upon reflection, this is probably the first time I have touched his hand since I was a kid. We were or are not the family of closeness and touching or any type of healthy communication. There was that fight when I was in my twenties, but no hand holding, just swinging. It feels weird that it makes me smile. Everybody loves to to retell the bad stories, but there were good times. I survey the frail body, shaking my head as I remember how safe he made me feel - a tear rolls down my cheek. I sit and let more flow, finally grabbing a tissue and drying my face. I take a deep breath and lean very close to him while placing his hand in mine again. I whisper to him, tell him I do love him and appreciate everything and forgive the bad. I swallow hard, looking around again to make sure nobody can hear me (but him), and apologize for telling the doctors to halt further efforts to fix him. I explain what they told me, they said it was hopeless. I stop and silence swallows us, I wonder if there is a chance the doctors were wrong. The silence (and darkness) is pierced by the door opening, I look up and watch the nurse enter and approach me. She pats me my back, expressing her sorrow as I slowly realize the beeping is gone, he is gone. I look at her and back at him, there are no more tears, just realization. I stand and thank her, walk to the door while retrieving my cell phone. I look back as she disconnects the wires. I expect to see her cover him with a sheet, but no. I guess I watched too many police shows. I pull up my sister's number and press dial, it rings as I lean against the mahogany wall and stare down at the floor.

Rainy Night

Discussion: Kids usually love music and songs, and it is funny when they actually hear the words - possibly understand them. Songs often transport me, Motownphilly by Boyz to Men was popular when my wife and I began dating, so it often takes me back to those happy days. My dad loved George Jones and sadly tried to live the same life style. Now that I think of it, I can label family members by artists or songs: AC/DC is my brother; Mom is Neil Diamond; my sister loved Peter Frampton while my son was a big Jay-Z fan. I think of my grandma (aka mamaw) and Eddie Rabbit's song "I Love A Rainy Night" every time it rains while I am driving. I am nine years old again, we are in her living room with the shag carpet - funny, she had a rake to maintain the shagginess (Note: Googled it and those rakes are still used). She had the Eddie Rabbit album among her countless Elvis records along with Nat King Cole. The stereo, or hifi as it was called, was a console model, its wood veneer finish spanning six feet. The top opened on a long hinge that could be locked open as you worked with records on the turntable inside. The song blasted from its built-in speakers - she really liked to crank it up. "Showers wash all my cares away. I wake up to a sunny day." She belts out the lyrics, this seemed to be her favorite lines outside of the chorus. She grabs my hands and we dance. I am mesmerized as she transforms from the quiet, serious mamaw into a dancer, surprisingly light on her feet. I concentrated on the lyrics, memorizing them so I could sing along - she looked at me as we danced, but she was in her own world. The song ends and she plays it again before removing the record and closing the "hifi". "Puts a song in this heart of mine. Puts a smile on my face every time." The song is stored away in my memory and it does put a smile on my face every time it plays. Of course, it lives on my iPhone as the magic of modern technology simplifies trips down memory lane. "Well, I love a rainy night. It's just a beautiful sight." I actually do love rainy nights, the rain dancing on the roof of the house, the rhythm of the drops making sleep easier. It is ironic that it poured rain the day of her funeral, maybe God sent her out in style? I expressed this thought at her funeral and received odd stares, it seemed nobody else knew (or remembered) her love of this song. It made me question my memory, but a quick survey of her record collection revealed Eddie Rabbit's face. It makes it more special to think of it as our song.

Broken

Discussion: I had to read it a few times to understand who is saying they are sorry (and maybe I still got it wrong). Now, reading it, I cringe at the constant "I'm sorry" as I have seen that a lot with others in "situations" and you want to shake them and tell them to run (or swerve) away. I hand him a wrench, 14 mm and then the pliers. He is impressed by my knowledge of tools - "..at such a young age", he says. The hood slams and he motions for me to get in for a test drive. I hesitate before he assists, pushes me into the vehicle. He says I helped him fix it, so now I can help determine if the problem is fixed. Deep down I know this is a lie, but it makes me feel good that somebody is finally listening to me. I fasten the seat belt and he laughs as a cigarette dangles between his bottom lip and mustache. I wonder how the mustache does not make him sneeze. He slams the recently installed gear shit into reverse and we speed away. I watch our trailer, my home, get smaller in the review mirror before it is completely gone. I surprise myself by wondering if I will see it again. My arm dangles out the window as the car speeds down the highway. He slaps the steering while while pulling a cigarette from his shirt pocket, he seems happy, everything working as expected. I revel in the moment, losing myself in the false freedom of being away and on my own. The trance breaks as he squeezes my shoulder, I turn to meet his gaze, like I am being measured. The convenience store is a blur as we fly by - I wonder if Denise is working, maybe she saw me in the car window. The park is strangely empty, but then again it is a weekday afternoon - people do have to work, as Dad says. I sway side to side as he navigates the car down the tree-lined roads, getting darker as we go deeper into the park. A lump forms in my throat as I think of the missing girl’s bike found at the mall - whatever happened to Ann Gottlieb? The dying leaves, wet from the recent rain - their distinct aroma fill the interior. I reach out attempting to grab a handful from the branches as we creep past, closing my eyes while taking a deep breath - opening them when he turns off the engine. He flicks the cigarette butt out the window before rolling them up. I turn and meet his gaze. He seems reluctant, unsure of what to do next. It is a skill, my ability to read people, often rightly guessing their next move. His hand strokes my leg, a squeeze of the knee, grabbing and pulling. The sound of friction against the vinyl seat as he leans closer. I close my eyes as I hear the click of the door locks. His breath is sour, a mixture of tobacco and the Coke he had been drinking - it covers the top of my head. I hold my breath as his other hand is on the back of my neck. Time seems to stand still, I want to yell but nothing comes out. Suddenly, we are both still, his heavy breathing the only sound. I am pushed back, we are now back in our starting positions. He leans forward, mumbling, berating himself. He grabs my hand again, ordering me to bow my head as the Lord's Prayer is recited. I mumble, not fully remembering the words, I want to go home.

Guilt

Discussion: I love the way the short piece flows, like stream of consciousness - all of the random (or maybe not so random) things lost, so visual in its simplicity. I struggled with anything comparable with many, many false starts. Guilt can be a heavy burden. The mistake at work resulting in a huge outage and big delays. That simple exaggeration on the resume. Professing your love of a coworker's cake while mentally searching for a trash can. The "sick" day taken when you sped down the highway to watch your favorite team. Over promising and over committing, hoping nobody will remember when it is all over. Guilt weighs you down. Glancing at your phone, seeing the picture of mom on the caller id and looking away. Missing your cousin's wedding when you had to work, but really spending the weekend in bed with a special friend. Telling them they are special and you've never felt this way. Saying it's me, not you. Saying you understand when none of it makes sense. Telling your significant other you were at your friend's house and not with the other. Posting that 15 year old picture on your dating profile. Telling others you love spending time with your family. I lay bare my own sources of guilt. Saying you love the gift while pulling it from the gift bag and making plans to deposit in a trash bag. Telling the police officer you were unaware of the 35 MPH speed limit. Telling the dentist of course you floss daily. Telling them I will see you tomorrow when you will never see them again. Saying you are sorry when you really do not care.

The Stranger

Something was up as I swung my legs out of bed on Sunday morning. I looked around, I was not alone in the bedroom - it was quiet, too quiet, it was a metaphysical feeling. I rubbed my eyes and forehead, seemingly unable to fully wake up. I heard footsteps and then the grandson bolted through the door, landing in the middle of the bed before I would say anything. “Hey Pop Pop, it’s time to get up!” He laid on his back, giggling, while putting his feet on my back. “What’s the rush?” I seized the opportunity to lie down on the bed, wrapping my left arm around him and giving a big squeeze. I just wanted to close my eyes a bit longer, but these quiet times with the him are priceless. “Rush?” He whispered unequivocally and looked at me. “It means hurry, like why are we hurrying? We have all day, right?” I tried to explain while feeling a dry tickle in my throat. I felt like coughing but avoided it, and wondered about the room temperature while pushing off covers. “Blake at school said the F word Friday and he got in trouble. Nina helped me with the math assignment and I gave her one of my cookies.” He whispered facts or highlights from his week with his mother as we both lie back on the bed, it was the greatest moment of my week these days. I felt blessed to have these personal moments with him. I didn’t feel the need to confess my love of the F word and constant use of it somedays. “What is wrong with your head?” He sat up and watched me rub my temples. “Nothing really, just a headache, just need some coffee to jumpstart it.” It was a small lie, or I thought so, as my head pounded like a marching band took up residence in my brain. I was not sure if the coffee would help. Besides, this is how all of our Sunday morning talks ended. I could feel its presence with us, the stranger lurking, getting closer and closer to me. I wanted to push the little one away from him. He bounced from the bed, grabbed my hand and I followed, making our way to the kitchen. Oatmeal is his favorite breakfast, so I started the process before grandma (oh yes, she loves being called that) joined before taking over as he loved grandma’s oatmeal. I think her secret was nutmeg, but I wouldn’t swear to it. I shook some Tylenol pills from the bottle, chasing them with water while rummaging though the cabinet for other remedies - the stranger was gaining strength. I lowered my increasingly aching body into a table chair as the little one found a seat directly across. I smiled while examining him, wondering if he had brought the stranger into the house. “You okay?” She sat a mug of coffee in front of me while rubbing my shoulder. “Yeah, why?” I blew and sipped. “It’s just, well, you don’t look good, and you are warm.” She mumbled while the back of her hand rested on my forehead. Thirty years together meant a kind of familiarity that cannot be easily explained. “I am tired, and throat a little dry, but this weather is crazy - 70 one day, 40 the next and then all of the rain.” I motion at nothing specific with my hands. “You should go lie down. We’ll be okay, get some rest.”

Man in the mirror

I miss the stranger, a bond between us. An older guy, thinning hair with an increasingly conservative approach to life . Do we all pull back as we age? He loved to show that hed’d seen it all before, the Phillies losing to the Astroes? He reflects on the 1993 team - bothe seasons in similar fashion. The frozen lock on the truck’s driver door - he says get graphic like he did with his old F-100 . His knowledge and experience are indispensable, wisdom,.The younger kids think they know it all and he is useless. Isn’t that the way it always goes as generates pass the torch (sometimes that torch is fumbled). We don’t really talk, it is more of a low mumble and borderline rants. I always thought he was vaguely familiar, and there it is it is dad. Now, there is no swooop of hair to cover the ever-expanding patch of skin on top of the head as he did so many years prior, but remnants of a once flourishing socient remain on both heads. Combine that with the similarly large noses, and “..you could never deny he’s your father..” as the heart surgeon said a few years ago. I splash water on my face a few times to overcome the tiredness of the morning, the water beads on my head and rolls down the gutters on each side of the nose along with the wrinkles forming around the eyes, a tiny drop hands conspicuously on my chin. 

At first it was shocking to see him staring back at me in the mirror. At first, I wanted to ask about the serpintine belt on the truck and how to replace before remembering or realzing it is just me, and I know what needs to be done with the belt - push the middle pulley to loosen the tension and abra cadabra it slides off. I need to get that part to fix the dryer, just like he did at the house on Manslick so many years ago. Mom could not believe he did anything right, but I was a witness. I admire my visitor, my nemesis, my twin, all the while others hate him. Do they hate me as well? I wish we could sit down for a conversation like the past - a sober conversation. He did appear in a dream one night, but all I thought about was the recent prostate exam and all of our jokes. We had so many good laughs. I remember him standing in the mirror so many years ago, spraying men’s hairspay to keep that flap in place. It was infeminate (in my mind), especially when he borrowed Mom’s White Rain but he usually had a product called Consort. We were stuck in a boat on a nearby lake when a storm surprised us and dumped rain as we sped towards the dock, I laughed as Dad steared the boat while whiping the stinging hair spray running into his eyes. In the end, we were both laughing.

Turn the Page

I am startled as I open the flaps on the box , shocked by the sight of her book. I pick it up and peel open the front cover, I can almost smell her, and there it is, a message in that familiar handwriting "I couldn't help but think of you and all the possibilities and unknowns ahead, let the fun begin!" She signed her name, I slowly trace it with my finger and look over my shoulder to see if anybody is watching. It is a Joseph Campbell book, I never read it, but I remember her placing it my hands and laughing - there seemed to be so many possibilities.

"I know you said no, but I got you something. I thought of you when I saw it, with all the stuff we have been discussing." She pushes me back and grabs me by my shoulders, silently telling me to stay before retrieving a gift bag from her car.

"Oh wow, you really shouldn't have, thank you so much." I wrap my arms around her and pull her tight before we kiss. We lean against her car and look up at the darkening sky, there is a long silence before we are in each others arms again, quickly scooting into the backseat of her SUV. I quickly scan the surroundings before closing the door, it seems advantageous to have parked at the top of the campus parking garage.

"Are we really going to do this?" She pulls me close, answering her own question. 

I can't imagine sex in the backseat of any of my cars now - I'd be at a physical therapist the next day trying to fix my back. For some reason, it worked that night, of course everything always seems right and urgent in the beginning. 

Of course, we both were married and knew it. In the end, love was not enough, it still pains me that I was stupid to cross that line and lose a great friend, as if it was avoidable. Would we have still been such close friends now if there had never been the affair? A bead of sweat drops from my forehead to the yellowing page, I reread it.

"Is that the last box?" 

"What? Fuck, no, you scared the shit out of me!" I flinch as my wife seems to magically appear in the garage doorway, hands on hips, forever the taskmaster. The bursts out laughing and I join her with my own laughter more rooted in nervousness.

"Calm down old man, wait, are you still looking at the first box? This will take all day, just let it go, leave the past where it belongs, besides you haven't opened those boxes in years, let's drop them off today." She turns and is gone as fast as she appeared and I wonder if she was ever really there.

"Okay." I realize the craziness of this answer since I am alone. I tear the first page from the book and push it into my back pocket. I wonder what we had been discussing that led her to get me a book about mysticism, but we were always discussing something. She could make any subject exciting, or maybe that was just youth. The conversations were always so enthralling and I truly miss that, I miss that other version of me. Was that me or is this me, I remember asking myself that type of question when it was all happening.

I move the boxes to the back of the car. It would've taken me weeks to review everything. My wife is not a reader, so she'd never understand nor has she ever understood.

Lights out

One minute we are talking, the next minute we are bathed in darkness, the house completely silent. I scramble and finally locate a flashlight, heading outside to the power box. I open the lid/door and freeze, it is you and I standing next to your house. You turn towards me and tell me to step back, that someone needs to be available to call for help. You pull the black plastic breaker and hold it in the air, you turn and smile. I stand with the my own breaker in had - the same smile. I look at the dangling wires, remember when the guy at the hardware store explained how it all works? I install the replacement, never worrying about electrocusion as you did so many years ago. We laughed and high-fived when the new breaker was switch on and power returns to the hosue. I return to the family room, now bathed in light and noise from the television. She asks why I am smiling like a maniac and I give a wink to you, the one who survived and I never had to call for help. 

Balance

The midday sun shines through the window that spans the length of the room. I stand and walk to the window, quickly lower the shade halfway to everybody’s relief as we now can all see again. I can feel my stomach turn as I glance to the clock at the other end of the room, 11:30, the promised, or rather scheduled, lunch break - it is supposed to be delivered from local sandwich shop. All of the locals in the meeting have been raving about the place all morning - there is no way it could ever meet those expectations.  

I spot the lunch cart at the door as I return to my seat. I am farthest from the door (and meeting presenter), so there will be a wait for food. I sit back as everybody grabs a box - a box lunch in an actual box. A hush envelopes the room, soft noises of chewing and opening packages. I pull the sandwich out and take a quick bite, when have I ever been this hungry. My eye catches my manager sitting directly across from me - he is sitting back with sandwich in one hand and his drink resting in the other, his hand is outstretched, palm open, the cup is in the middle of the hand. Who holds a drink like that? I quickly do a visual survey of the rest of the group, cups in normal places, no palms. 

The lunch break ends with everybody reconvening in their previous seats, munching cookies, my manager enjoying one as well with the cup sitting precarioulsy in the same position. I look around, does anybody else see this? The rest of the meeting crawls, but I remember nothing as my mind is sidetracked by the cup. I finally text a friend on the other side of the table “what is going on with Brian’s cup?” I watch as he reads it, followed by a quick glance over followed by eye roll, we both cover our mouths to laugh. I remember nothing else from that meeting except the cup. 

Connection

seeking a true connection

accompanied by emotion

giving life meaning

crave the connection

the spark that ignites

being seen and heard

valued for who we are

warts and all

hard to define

yet easily recognized

striving and searching

for deep connection

that makes us whole