Dear Someone

Dear Someone,

I've been trying for sometime now, seeking like a wary traveler, just enough sustenance to make it home for Christmas. And I've often tasted it, a hint or false version: scented and veiled and assuming. And I've made a lot of assumptions, conjectures along the way. I don't know what certitude is left for you or me, but I'm glad you're here - and with me now. I once thought myself incapable of such wanderings or growing fondness for regret as I've now found. Only failure and regret, or a geranium kiss, can recall the intricacies of that progression toward our present stature. the generals always pondered if we'd ever arrive and receive their blessing and acceptance.

And likely that's why it's so arduous, transgressing, feeling warmth and acceptance from veiled pessimism and incapable notions. Though appreciated so much greatly, presently, it's culpable to harp upon those tragedies, that ugliness. Wanton days can cloud so much through the drizzling rain, making you declare, "I musta been mad; Not a penny on my name." And thusly it's hard to get back home and make it, hit the pawn shop before you hit the highway. In times like these, you wish your brakes didn't cinch so tight, and the abrupt interruptions were not so frequent. Driving across those levees, it's hard to never make a few stops and layovers. Or those Indian mounds along the Natchez Trace... You make conjectures, again, assumptions over what they withhold, or even provided beyond reverence. For that's all we seek.

It's the approbation of innocence everyone yearns and pains for in the end. We were there at the close and sensed the iceberg before it was even in sight. Ms. Someone, I just want you to be aware and that is all. Take and bring whatever you can and be forgetful of all you dread losing. Departure from all those constraints and lost hope. The amends made, you'll likely forget and make again. Trying to coll your brow without drawing attention, or seeing their eyes. It makes you want to run so hard and go far abroad, just to arrive a little out of sight. And I can't deny that bluebird in my heart. She'll keep pestering as long as my heart keeps burning. We'll let her out one day, soon, I hope. But I like it there, having the pain to keep me in check; I revere it and it rewards thusly.

But we're almost there. I know you can taste it; just don't drink too much before I get there. I'm tacking time.

Mitch