Harvest

It is unimaginable and seems impossible. Life changes in a moment. One moment, we were sitting in our assigned chairs. That place I thought would be my home forever was suddenly empty - no chair, no home, no one there. Everything that was is no more. Saddness sets in when I struggle to recall how things used to be.

Through the eyes of youth, we can see just what we did not give in to. We were not swept away by the sweet obsession of something that truly made us feel content. Too late? I don't think so. 

Loneliness makes them do something lighthearted and funny, then you find it is not funny. He was young and running the jungles of Southeast Asia. He was strong and impossible to break. Today, it does not give him much of a grip. He is there for them, and that is what counts. I watch silently, and I know.

I have always wondered what the world would be like if there were a late harvest, because my youth was going to last forever, and there was a time when it really seemed like it was going to. There were festivals and celebrations to attend, and there was more there than there seemed to be at the time.

The late harvest actually did come. In every way, I got to see it grow. Now I stare at the fields and sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I see those like me who don't see things my way. I foolishly let them pull at my sleeves. Not a chance that I am going with them. Sometimes I perceive they see me as a fool, sometimes I think they envy me.

There are signs on the trail every day telling me that I am right. That should be enough for me, but like the sweet serenade of addiction, the pull to be sedentary is real, and gravity is heavier in these hours of the day. I have attributed rage to my survival for the last two decades, but I am beginning to realize it is not really rage, for that is a fool's solution. It is destructive, directionless, and does not build. What I have done is work wrathfully, in directions that brought light and good. I showed appreciation and commendation. Is that truly rage?

After we said all we could today, I sat on the porch, and the sun refused to show itself. Rain will come, and it needs to. The realities of the world rush in, and I contemplate air to breathe as the room fills up. I know there is a way, because there always has been.

I spread out all the clues to the puzzle on the table. Time is passing, and there needs to be an answer. I know where the journey is going. We just needed to stop so that the sound of our feet touching the ground could go silent, so we could hear what was around us. The rest is up to us. 

I sat here with one more cup of coffee, looking at the green leaves of the tree right in front of me, and that is good. It is the one behind it that concerns me; it is more yellow and orange now than it is green, and I know that is the reality. It is time to get up and make every moment count, as if it were five. 

When we gather, some of the greatest men I know are casually mentioned. They made me, and I hope to keep them by showing I remember them in conduct and honor. I hear the sound of something outside, or is it in my head? It's hard to tell the difference now, but I don't care. It will not stop me from being everything that I need to be. Somewhere in this mess, I hope to inspire my children. The whole world is asleep at the wheel, just falling into the groove that others make. I just want to walk along here in the mud. What is wrong with that?