He sinks to the depths about now.
Plunging, and making no effort to still the descent.
Taking comfort in the pitch where no one else is allowed,
or wants to be.
The safest place ever.
It begins with a confluence, a perfect storm.
Christmas, another fucking birthday, the New Year.
Rarely measuring up to images conjured.
Memories blurred without remorse,
but not without contrition.
The lapsed belief in the baby Jesus.
The Big Cheese altar boy at Midnight Mass.
Nothing more special to his mother.
And the strange non-Uncle,
the perfect Santa except for those roaming hands.
Green soup and lasagna. A ham.
The candles blown out, the ball dropping.
It all saddens the man.
The missing of those moments.
How he loves winter.
Visible breathe with the first step out.
The biting air, the sharper the better.
Add some wind, he prays.
The depth of the forest.
Frozen ground – crunching and hard.
The smell of wood smoke and
soup simmering on the stove.
Dogs laid up on the couch. Like they own the joint.
New images, he thinks.
A clear reality not faded by time, or muted by innocence.
Seen with gratitude and lived with pleasure.