Folded Thought of the Day:


Letters from once-friendly voices are being gathered for 
the eulogy, all those snapshots of when you were at your 
best, when you were someone's source for inspiration and 
kind words.  Before the curses and good-byes and mistaken 
identity passings.  

Home has become a mythical place.  Used to be, when things
got a little black and blue, I could always fall back on 
some idea that rested comfortably in the back of my mind -- 
that, no matter how bad things were, I could go home and 
my mom would be there with a big hug and a genuine smile 
and a big ol' batch of chocolate chip cookies.  

Now it seems that all I can muster up is some vision of 
a hobo camp in the middle of the desert.  With handfuls 
of lost souls gathered around the fire, sharing their 
supplies of food and shelter, and telling tales of old 
friends and loved ones gone astray.

Few sounds can evoke that lost sense of destiny.  A 
harmonica being played in the distance, the sound 
of a train disappearing over the horizon, a child crying 
in the night, a floorboard creaking when all is still.  

I've always tried to play this game one hand at a time.  
It seemed to be a matter of chance whether the pair 
I was holding could stand the test...once all the 
chips were on the table.

Standing alone, on some empty stage with a dim spotlight, 
a bullhorn and handful of torn pages at the ready.  Looking 
out, noticing that the crowd seems to have stayed home, makes 
you wonder why you bothered making the effort.

Oh well, the show must go on.


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