The Thirteen Tales

Luke 15: 11-32

My mom cried from the moment I took down the cardboard sign, hung to the light-post outside the family home. The black lettering read: Good Luck Kevin-Your Friends. The crying didn't cease untill two hours later, when they droped me off at college.

I came back. In sorrow, in humility, longing for fresh taco's, meatloaf, and saftey.

Five years later, she cried again. When furniture was packed into the U-haul, the green corsica (Louie) was filled with my clothes, and we ventured the four hour drive, into another state. Another place.

I went back home on Saturday.

The lawn was freshly manicured, in front of the white ranch style house. I placed the parking break on, shut off the motor. Grabed the vase with freshly picked flowers from my garden, and sauntered to the front door. I looked in. Disaster.

Toys thrown about, conversation, chatter, children running about. I could look in, entry was not possible. Munchkins are best coralled behind locked doors. The ringing of the door bell alarmed.

Short, sweet, painless, unexpected. Hugs, a few crocidile tears held back, a welcome.

Tipped off my dad, prior to embarkation. Confirming that yes, indeed-I'd come home. I'd put aside the barricades: my personal issues, grievences, and other bullshit, to make peace.

Because, driving through green bluffs, small farming communities, over the river and through the woods, can be therapeutic. The mind wanders, the Civic follows the way. It knows the way. There is no navigation required. I had a "full tank and some chips".

The visit was short, uneventful, pleseant. I was able to inject a few hours of HGTV into the veins. I slept. Hung Porkchop by his feet, chased Rutabega and no-name around the house. I laughed. A little.

Motivation was simple:

Earthquakes happen. Tornados appear out of the air, and kill. Mechanical hearts don't last forever. People die. Shit happens.

And as my parents age, I realise the more time I spend with them, the more quality time I spend with them, the more I share with them, the more, the more, the MOOR-the closer I find a peace.

There is a street version of the "serenity prayer" that goes something like this:

FUCK IT.

My current montra. In life, the only two things that are forever certain are death and taxes, everything else is "For Now".
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I'm not worried about Thrusday at all. It will come when it will come, there is alot of daylight between here and now.

My grandparents sent me a small "agenda" of activities, lunch, a museum, a walk, and dinner. It will be fine.

Because it always works out in the end, doesn't it. Even at that moment the world seems to be crashing. And maybe it is, I won't disregard that fact. Even if the world does come to an end, it all works out. Always have, always will.

I realised that tonight. Over dinner with Erwic. Over conversations of the mudane, and not the mudane.

I so overtipped our waitstaff. And the food, for once, wasn't bad.

I looked cute, handeled myself well, and am just so fucking glad its TUESDAY.