Good Morning, Celestial Bodies

Near-death in a hospital bed. I am looking at myself and wondering why, when it is finally semi-warm in Chicago, is it gray? The things mulling in my head like wine:

-My mother calling me at work saying how she is sooooo excited to see me this weekend…but…would it be okay if I stayed in a hotel at the airport (1.5 hours away) because it is conflicting with her church schedule.
-Certain green pants walking around a corner half waving “maybe I’ll see you before I leave the country for two weeks” turning my eyes and heart south though the winter is finally ending.

Sketchy sleep and quiet roommates pushing me into my bed with a book and whiskey and dreams of people I don’t know. Waking up to wrinkled laundry and Harry Nilsson placing hands on my shoulders and patting words of encouragement.

Quiet days, quiet days. The last in an approaching line of responsibilty and late evening phone calls concerning espresso and no call-no shows. I’m ready for something. Go, go, go.

The plan?

Spend Thursday night with Kate drinking cheap wine and chain smoking our lung sacs into unreckognizable raisins. Spend Friday walking around Charlotte, NC with nothing but a smile and a twitch of fear. Drive to my mom’s and eat chicken noodles. Wake up Saturday, be driven to the Charlotte airport and check into my last night of something. Spend the evening in a bar talking to weary travelers and arm wrestling until my reconstructed elbow is piled on the ground.

Objective. Think about nothing in Chicago. Think about nothing in my life. Count my footsteps, my blessings, my scars, my apologies, and the clouds. Make it on time to my flight and then, and only then, wonder why if I am my own god, why can’t I be my mother’s, too?


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