It Happened Again

Rated G

June 28, 2012

It happened again.

Time heals all wounds, they say . . .

I have grown more comfortable in my own skin then I have felt for a very long time. But with that comfort comes a certain beige banality. Hermitage has a homogeneity. I would not say that it lacks stimulation, but the emotions are soft. The highs aren’t so high, the lows not so low, and there are very few turns in the road. Not bad really. Serviceable. Comfortable. Safe. I rather like it that way. But it does come at a cost. Yin and Yang eternally strapped to the seesaw.

It happened again. Like most nights, when I laid down last night, I sent out my thoughts. There is no god, but there is an energy, and I send my thoughts out into it. I wish Alex well, and Dad, and Kim. I think of Mom. And I think of Elizabeth. I hope that she is well, and all right, and happy. Like most nights, my mind worked, drifting from thought to thought. Examining an issue here. Reflecting on a resolution there. And then the blackness absorbed me.

Being a night-owl walks your life around the clock. During the midmorning hours, when most are starting to feel the weight of the day, I usually still lie prone. Often this is when the dreams are deepest. This morning was no exception. It started simply. I was unpacking something. A tiny trinket – a small teapot and high-heeled shoe on a miniature platform. All porcelain and white and pure, and all no bigger than two thumbs. It made me think. “Had I missed something?”

I rushed into the middle room of my hermit’s hole, where I opened a file cabinet drawer. I found an old yearbook, with signatures and pictures. It was hers. “Oh my. I will have to get this back to her.” Then a pair of fur edged gloves, and several floppy, fabric, flowered purses. And then books. Books upon books upon books, filling the drawer as if it was a gateway to a larger dimension. “Oh my.” I clutched a colorful clutch, and held it to my cheek, and began to weep. “I’m sorry. I am so very sorry.”

Suddenly I woke, the sorrow heavy, and the concern real. Were there really things I had accidently spirited away? No. I had overlooked them, and for that I was deeply sorry. Then I remember. I know every nick and knack in my recluse’s realm. There are no beautiful bags or boxes of books that should not be here. It was a dream, full of deep emotions not felt during the steady pace of my waking life.

They say that time heals all wounds. But these are not wounds, and I will keep them safe.

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