I’d call myself free but for the cigarettes. And the alcohol. And the grief. And the guilt. And the shame. And the anger. And the love (lost and found).
Sometimes there’s quiet. Like when I’m watching TV and staring into space.
Or when I’m caught watching a PTSD flashback so common it’s essentially TV. Brain dead. Drooling despite myself. Staring into space.
Usually I have the dishes, but there’s a machine in my new apartment.
Sometimes I have the laundry, but the dryer is loud.
I’ve been missing the birds over the drone and the stone of construction on the hillside one block over. Ivy will creep there eventually, if the new owners get wise to old homes in new places.
There’s quiet at the bar at least, nestled in the music and the chatter. They know me well enough to leave me alone (let him come to you).
“And tonight I’m an alley cat/more afraid of you than you are of me/but if you put some food out on the porch/I might stop by long enough to eat”
I don’t think a free person has nothing tying them down. I think a free person knows what’s theirs. I think a free spirit knows that that’s enough.
So I’m not totally free. At least not yet.
Amen Selah
Next year in Jerusalem
