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.
Panoramic inventory shows the landscape in a better light.
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
Always the strings.
The sharp clear cry of the vixen
Calling from the hedgerow
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 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 awhile longer.
I can’t share things of which I haven’t had my fill.
Giving too much
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.
Placing my feet in well worn trends
The dance school reopened for sober living.
Passion plays and calls my response
For today, I pass
I leave the song inside
You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault