I hear it slam on me on my last night as I'm driving home. I barely feel conscious, not from being tired but from just the sheer dream-like quality I feel. I don't want this to happen but I brought it on myself. I turn each corner and can feel it in my muscles on my right shoulder, from it being dislocated. At least something will heal soon. . . Wish I could say the same for my pride. . . Replaced by shame, the hits I take figuratively because everyone wants a chance to tell me what a stupid thing I did.
Except one. . . One person takes no shots. . . And I love her for that.
As my thirty days had drawn near I saw her as much as I could. On the first day of my suspension she got to take me out and see me again. As I was brought back, I told her all I think she should know, in case I didn't get to see her for a while.
She doesn't think- she knows- this will all be ok. So I hold onto that notion. . . Like a convict with a letter from his daughter with shaky letters; I'll grip it tight 'till my knuckles turn white and I'm long gone in my grave.
No comments:
Post a Comment