A Day in the Life, #1

My wife burned her diaries yesterday. She said memories belonged to the sky and wind.



I learned to monitor the passage of time with the falling of leaves. And to delete words and phrases without crossing them out.



Everything is new in this adventure: ants feasted on a plateful of cookies I left in a ceramic platter. How come their paths are always so connected?



Our cat decided its furry kittens cannot survive a forgetful world. A bloody mess was left for me to clean this morning.



My wife says our son should become what he wants. I think it’s better to wrestle with choice than engage war with words.



Today seemed so far from yesterday, yet I can still hear the whispers of paper as it kissed the flames. Fire is always needed to destroy, to forget.



When I was a boy I wanted to study about volcanoes. My parents urged me to become a doctor. Now I’m married, shuffling papers, and kisses my wife on her cheek.



I’ve taken to placing periods at the end of every sentence. There’s always a happy face etched by every perspiring beer bottle.



I’ve been doing the same thing for 22 years: watch raindrops stain a glass window. My wife offers me a cup of coffee and says the rain washes everything away. Soon.



After clearing the carcasses, everything seemed new and ready. Like a new page awaiting words.



I think the ink fades and the paper grow old. Even the skin heals after every wound. Fire remembers its mortality after the rain. Then rain drifts into memory.



The world does not make my choices. And the world, after all, moves on.