It's Complicated

If no one reads, to whom or what is a person offering words? An honest answer dogs me and yet, every time I stop writing, it feels like I cannot breathe. Go into this. My teacher's voice is the same as pine trees waiting on the wind to whisper.

On the floor, along the wall in the living room, are a few old milk crates of Dad’s vinyl record. At almost 80, he doesn't need them anymore and I remember feeling emotional on the Christmas morning he gifted them. What was it like to reach a place in life when something you have collected, used for joy, enlightenment and love, doesn't mean enough to keep?

A day may come when I cannot see well enough to write, or my fingers will not be agile enough to hold a pen or curl over a keyboard. However, will there be a day with no music?

It's complicated. There were times when our shared love of music was the only thing that felt real between my father and me. Giving away the albums doesn't mean the music or the connection wasn't real. However, it does in some ways speak into the fading purpose and joy of holding even that which gives you purpose and joy.

A frost advisory goes out this late in May. I spent my paycheck on plants and flowers only to come dangerously close to losing all of it. Again, I am asking, what are my efforts for?

An oriole sings from the split cedar fence as the nuthatch, sparrow and finch take turns at the feeder. I don't know if it is possible for the people in my life to join me in my loneliness. Perhaps, even this, I must give up.