Lullaby

Lost in thought.

The gentle caress of a breeze causes me to recall a youth long past yet not forgotten. What is going on in my life that causes me to reflect so deeply?

Am I unhappy?

I am not weeping.

Am I lost?

How do I know?

Perhaps it is simply a moment in time when one pauses and reflects on what used to be.

The sun sinks beyond the edge of my reality.

Life is both lived and experienced, though not always at the same time.

The rustling of the leaves and singing of the birds make me realize how lucky I am.

Yet, something is missing.

I have that feeling, a feeling of loss, a feeling of helplessness. I feel lonely, though I am not alone.

The gentle breeze has caused me to think.

I see a cross on a hill; it is late in the evening, and there is no one around.

With hesitant trepidation, I consider my future, and a bleak countenance settles on my soul.

I wonder how life could have been different.

If I were less introspective and more extroverted, would I have had more opportunities?

And while I've tried to change, I consider myself fine just the way I am.

I am divorced now. It is for the better.

My children have grown and have left home, and though I watch their lives from afar, I find it difficult to cope without being in their lives.

The sunset is beautiful. A fading orange, purple, red, and grey. A perfect end to an imperfect day.

I listen, and I absorb. I filter the unwanted and embrace the pleasant. It wasn't so long ago that my dear sweet friend and I would sit under the pine out back and contemplate life together. No words needed to be spoken. The company was sufficient. He has been dead for four years now. I think of him often and the stories he told. I have written them down as a homage to his memory, so he doesn't fade, like the sun, but unlike the sun, he won't be back.

Three months after his passing, his wife, for 40 years, bid her final farewell. I was there to say goodbye. They were cremated and their ashes spread in the garden of their family home. The home has since been sold, and soon those who can spare a moment to recall them will have passed. Who will be left to remember them?

I think too much about life, death, and everything in between. I don't dream anymore, I just do. The frail fancies of childhood have disappeared. I am scarred by the realities of life. The only thing I can believe in is me, and at times, that is a struggle.

I can't, I just can't listen to the same arguments. The outside noise is too loud. Regardless of political persuasion, the intensity of their objection baffles me. Blame is laid at the feet of the poor, but I will not let such thoughts intrude upon me and ruin my evening.

Lower and lower the sun sets, the orange disc, spidered by the branches of the trees.

Silence, sweet silence, and the softening of the breeze. White and yellow daisies, like hundreds and thousands on a child's birthday cake, and just as sweet, dance harmoniously.

I fear being forgotten.

I fear being alone.

It has been some time since shadows crept across my thoughts.

A friend of mine is dying. As John Wayne said, the big C. He has lived 56 years, and he was told two days ago that he will live no longer than three months. He has children and a wife. He has a job. They had hopes, dreams, and a future planned out. It consisted of travelling and spending time with family and friends. None of that will come to pass. His children will graduate high school, get married, have children, and he won't be there.

Life doesn't care about your feelings. Things happen, and there's no reason or rhyme to them. We take solace in fate, we talk about a divine plan, and how things are just meant to be. I used to think that way, but I don't anymore. I worry for his children as I worry for my own. All I can do is offer kind words and a helping hand.

We grow up together, and then we drift apart. Family, as well as friends.

My siblings and I rarely talk now. I have two sisters and one brother, the black sheep. If I don't make the effort to communicate, then life just passes by. They have caused me some grief over the years. One sister, because of her wealth and position, has been the worst. She possesses a sense of entitlement that wealth generates. I believe her view of the world is skewed. I am sure she has an unsavory opinion of me. I remember the time our relationship shifted. I told her to stop teaching her kids to be racist. How dare I? We rarely speak.

I have always been reserved, but as of late, I have less time for idleness and nonsense. I am more outspoken, but this does not make me happy. It means that I need a holiday.

Our childhood was difficult. We grew up poor and needy. We missed out on many opportunities quite simply because we couldn't afford it. Our parents divorced when I was six. I remember the night we left. It was nearly 40 years ago, but I remember every sight, every scent, and every word spoken.

We moved towns. Mother worked hard to raise us right, and for the most part, some of us turned out okay.

I left home at 15, moved to the city. I got a job working in a store, earning $4 an hour. I'm now 55, and I kid you not, I've been working for 40 years straight with barely a break. I know I am not special, because this is what people do. At 28, I had an epiphany of what my life would be like if I continued to work meaningless and nameless jobs in volatile working conditions. I decided to go to university. During this time, I continued to work and support a family.

The sun is almost gone. Its darkness weighs heavily upon me like a blanket. The birds have disappeared. All I can hear, besides the noise in my own head, is a cicada's constant whine.

Things have changed. I graduated from university and got a higher-paying job. I made healthier choices. I am a good father, though a terrible husband. I put the kids first and forgot about the needs of my wife. Every time we tried to talk, I said the wrong thing, “That’s not what I meant.” I would say every time I tripped over my words. I said it so often she used the phrase against me in a sarcastic tone the last time we talked. “That’s NOT what I meant.” I am great with kids, not so good with women. I keep trying, but I can not put all the pieces of the puzzle together.

I tell myself this to help me understand; however, the cracks in the wall appeared years before. I am a law-abiding citizen; in fact, I am predictable, boring, yet stable and dependable. I offered no excitement. Despite this, I feel restless. It will be a momentary malaise; I have them occasionally.

The kookaburras perch their song high on the wind and find me at my desk by the window. I smile every time I hear them laugh. The cicadas have stopped, and the night sounds have taken over.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear a vehicle changing through the gears.

What else do I fear?

What do I want to achieve with the time I have left?

Fate is cruel and uncompromising.

There is no guarantee of tomorrow.

The sun will set on us all.

I lean back in my chair, interlace my fingers, and rest them on my head. I stare into the darkness. I sigh. It is almost time for bed.

Silence outside, and now within.

If you were here, I would sing you a lullaby.