A Not So Young Man Looks at a New Year
Where the ground gets warn away to brown, trodden, lumps of grass; they look so wet and matted with wear and time - that is the place where your foot steps gently. The tall crisp, almost neon grass on the sides, near the pavement, drinking of what hopes is soon-to-be Spring is framed like priceless heirloom. The brown stays slick and warns your heel as if to say, "Be careful of me. I'm slimy and moist."
There is black muck that you reach your hands into because it's your job now. You are the one that roots in the danger. You are the one that puts your foot forward before the young and before the old. It's your place. It's your time and what black muck sticks to your hands, face, and breath, comes away repainting your soul.
With the breath of the responsible come the spoils of the rewards. Dark glasses on the end of your nose guard your squint from the light off the table of water in front of you. Your woman sits in a chair enjoying her security. Your friends merriment and cheer can be heard to the clouds. Your face almost let's you enjoy it.
The slope that you want to walk down isn't 45 degrees but it sure seems that way. It's more or less a 7% gradient. It's more or less a death sentence. It's time to come to that ledge and spit.
At some point all men should hold up their fists and scream, "Enough! No more! Not today! Not now! Not ever again!" This is the time that your body rejects your brain. You quiver in your spine and you can feel your heart beat through your neck. It's too late for anything else. You stand. After the initial shock, the adrenalin subsides and it's just you and why you said the things you said. After the initial tremble you realize that you have what is needed to do anything.
Brown grass. Green grass. Black muck. Water like glass. Slanted hills. Raised fists. Welcome to manhood. Welcome to the granularity of life that allows for books to be read, meals to be enjoyed, and moments to be savored.
