I hear a tinkling noise and look around the room. No, it’s coming from my head. It’s the sound of the music of my life. The bells, a horn or two, the strings, always the strings. The sharp clear cry of the vixen, calling from the hedge row. The lonely voice of resolve. The melody shifts, tomorrow’s tune warming up in the wee hours of the night. I don’t try to part my lips. Replication is not yet a possibility. I am only just learning to move with the rhythm, keep the beat in my heart and draw it down for my toe to tap. I cannot sing my song. I must let it live in me a while longer. I can’t share things of which I haven’t had my fill. Giving too much, too often, makes the anthem run thin. I have to be fully me, to be full voiced. I need to stew in the juice of overflowing harmony. The pounding of my feet on the steps unite the accord.
Wild things and practiced plans put forward the waves of life on earth. I follow, placing my feet in well-worn treads, the dance school reopened for sober living. Passion plays and calls my response. For today, I pass. I leave the song inside.
Talk to yourself in a possibly unknown language………Kindness
The polite thing to do is
fly the silly blue rectangle
with its equally silly white diagonal stripe.
That would be the polite thing, for sure
but that would peek my disease’s hold card.
If anyone knew that my illness
was sailing my ship instead of me
the effect would be ruined.
Or so says the canker that grips me
and steers me to disaster.
Announcing this day-tripper as an unentitled accessory
to whatever wrong I am about to commit
might warn my friends or enlist my sponsor,
But no I leave my colors fly
and endanger the surrounding water.
For in truth my flag is just as fraudulent
as this vessel and is only on loan to me as well.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault