All I can do is stand on the grass and count the shutters, the windows, the doors. At first I cannot approach to inspect any closer than that. Time passes and the other steps work me. I peer through the windows the next time and count the stuffs I can glimpse through the glass. I possess no periscopic vision, but what is in plain sight I reckon. Subsequently I wished to exteriorize and draw the inventory of the house out onto the lawn and tally there wishing to avoid that interior life, the poisoned vixen who haunted there. Time passed and she recovered as did I, into the house I went. I am now able not only to number my possessions; I can assess the flow and function, work patterns, interplay, reliability. I have now appraised not just the what, but the how of my life and progress into tomorrow.
Give cooperation a hand
I parked next to a beaten little import.
The well of the passengers side filled
With empty sports drink bottles and soda cans
The dash board was a shrine.
Three taped photographs.
One of a young man and young woman.
One of the young woman and an older woman.
One of the young woman and an enormous marble statue.
There were small carved objects
Affixed to the dash.
Jade and soapstone figures,
Beads and a feather.
The sanctuary in my head is decked out
In a similar manner.
Postcard pictures line my mind.
People I love, trips I took, pets long gone.
The road signs of my journey
Stand as exhibits of a tour of duty
Not always to my liking
But nothing I would trade.
I know clearly where I have been
And study the map to prepare
For the future escapades and loved ones.
Trinkets strung on my life line
Give texture, flavor and flash
To my pilgrimage.
You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault