the irony of it all
Every time he heard a bell, Pavlov thought about feeding his dog.
Christmas eve, I'm alone, packing. How long have I had this? Why did I keep this? When would I even use this?
Opening all the drawers and cupboards. An embarrassment of riches, as I prepare yet another transition. The apartment becoming a chaos of clutter and sentimential paraphanalia, I have anything I would ever need, to just pick up and go.
Too many emotions. Out the door, pat check keys, smokes, phone, through layers of warm clothes.
Outside the crunch of snow, the blizzard sky of my youth, yet here today on a detour through the coast.
I almost miss him, a sleeping shadow. This is not an area where we see a lot of folks sleeping rough. But thousands likely are tonight, or close to it, nearby. He's breathing, and fully covered by his sleeping bag, which may or may not be fit for the conditions. I wonder how many nights in a spot like this, how many he has left in him.
Turnabout. Ancestor instinct.
Shedding muck up the stairs, to survey the chaos with new eyes. Jackpot: Blankets, hot pads, cash, chocolate, water, tobacco, socks, wipes. I try not to make the package too heavy, in case he cant carry much where he's going, and leave it softly at his feet.
If you read this, send your soul with mine, into this moment. Send love to all weary travelers, who find their beds amid the ruins of ancient ideas. Send hope to your heart, against whispers of futility and cynicism. Reciprocity is not forgotten. Light flame in the dark, we are here, after a hundred thousand winters.