My mother referred to going on vacation to see her family as a ‘Change of Work.’

She recognized that there’s always work to be done and always there will be people that work falls to and others it doesn’t.

I appear to be one of those people who carries this load despite efforts in my younger life to avoid such tasks…

How I was made to feel guilt for my laziness with repeated lectures by the workers, and I find myself now saying similar things to my kid.

“Can you not do something to help?”

Which leaves me wondering if maybe I should try to break this cycle of griping and grief and just shut the fuck up and do what needs to be done? ?

Said they wanted story.

But the story wasn’t short.

In all, it’s pain and glory.

Was less story, more report.

I wasn’t in a giving mood.

My moods were out of sort.

Accusations that I was rude.

I am, too tall? I must retort.

There is something in the water.

In the air like flakes of snow.

Take the narrow to the broader.

I’m just learning letting go.

You are cold, and you are distant.

It’s all tell now and no show.

If I were just more consistent.

I could teach this letting go.

There’s a moral to this story.

Builds a plot like mold will grow.

There’s no need to say you’re sorry.

You taught me well this letting go.

I am cold and I am distant.

I’m all tell now and no show.

You teach well, so persistent.

Such a gift this letting go.

They held on with great fury.

Leaving marks of letting go.

And the blood it stained: don’t worry.

All scars heal, don’t you know?

They were courting with disaster.

Then again, was nothing new.

On the street, he walked right past her.

There were smiles. Resentments grew.

They got old and lost all memories.

In the end, they up and died.

They were buried by their enemies.

And in their eulogies, they all lied.

It’s been strange and dislocated, but then again, it’s always been.

Except for all those blessings; in times of faith that go unseen.

I’ve been praying here in silence. Some words I share with God.

You’ve been missed. Not really here. I suspect you’re on the nod.

A wind that whistles through the trees. Sometimes, I hear the howl.

I had tried to make it up to you and, in the end, threw in the towel.

Sometimes, I hear the laughter. Sometimes, I hear the storm…

Sometimes, I don’t talk about it… Sometimes, I hope you’re warm.

We were snowed in like Alaska.

South of Dixie Mason line.

It felt like the world was ending…

So we doubled up on shine.

There’s no moral to this story.

Except for snow, it melts like rain.

And if you double up on moonshine.

You will probably go insane.

The pretty things were all dancing.

And we were looking for a sign.

Dexter danced and shook it off.

Like a Madman on the shine.

We were drinking at the Cascade.

At Leo’s five and dime.

Nothing much was making sense.

Until The Villians were the crime.

It came and went so quickly.

Like a fever at high pitch.

The Era went, and no one saw.

In silent darkness came the switch.

No one gave us warning.

Or at least not one that I heard.

And all the pretty things were dancing.

And the lines were kinda blurred.

The rain is bouncing off the asphalt.

Pain is seared upon the face.

No blame pointing out fault.

Just some lives at the human race.

No need to be to be getting upset.

There’s no need to be packing heat.

The old ones are all standing.

So the young can have a seat.

I was thinking about the future.

Don’t know how long that will last.

By then, they will find the cure.

All this change is set so fast.

The morning that Vincent was shot, he placed a large order of painting supplies.

Mysteriously, the gun that shot him was nowhere to be found and was not recovered.

The authorities or anyone else who accepted the suicide narrative have never considered how a man who had trouble feeding himself could afford a gun.

And finally… a deathbed confession in the early 1960s by the last of 3 brothers who admitted that Vincent was shot accidentally by him and his siblings during a favorite pass time of their’s, of teasing and torturing Vincent when they were teenagers.

As a side note: Vincent didn’t cut off his ear and give it to a prostitute either. There is an actual police report filed by Paul Gaughan, who was the only witness as well as a master swordsman… Besides being a wonderful painter and a world-class arsehole, it is considered a known conclusion by those who have studied the police report that Gaughan undoubtedly cut off Vincent’s ear.

I’m not sleeping.

I’m not dreaming.

I am somehow still in bed.

Nothing creeping.

Nothing scheming.

Of what was and wasn’t said.

Best get up in the early darkness.

Sort through papers and a clean.

The sun will rise regardless.

Over what has or hasn’t been.