I have written before about strings. We see them yet we don’t. They intersect each of us to others, crisscrossing the land.
I am sitting at MSP. Minneapolis Airport in Minnesota. Another day, another state and another city for the op log book.
But my heart is heavy. In Georgia my first cousin lies in ICU. Fighting the odds and the numbers. The doctors tell us its only a matter of time. More hours than days I’m told.
If it happens as they say this will be four people close to me that have gone to Fiddlers Green in a single month. The ties that bind are heartwrenching, and my soul is weary of this.
My next stop is Colorado. A place I have not been since 1997. It seems so long ago. A different time. For certain I was a different person.
What have we each become? I find myself struggling with bouts of melancholy as late, and wonder…has the road won? Or has the recent events just cleared mortality to my minds eye?
I have been so many places, but the sacrifice has been astronomical and certainly not worth the return.
The runway sits outside my window and I can hear Gordon Lightfoot singing Early Morning Rain in my head.
While in the Army Reserves I often ran the flight line at Dobbin’s AFB/NAS Atlanta. F15s and C130s lifting off to touch and gos. Man vs machine in a foot race. I never won but even in loss I was exhillerated. Today its 747s and I’m not running, I cant run, anymore.
But I still am. In my mind anyway. Running from the pain of missed weddings, funerals, graduations, and the pain I have caused others along the way. Irish are born with a guilty conscious the old saying goes, and my mind is covered with the strings of others lives.
I sit in a leather chair typing this on my Kindle. I who tempted fate more times than I care to recall. A cup of coffee beside me. A room with a view.
Meanwhile over 1000 miles away my cousin sits in a windowless room. No coffee. No view. No comfort. My family gathered round. Others, much better than me have gone before.
I don’t understand how I have avoided it so long. Or why my betters are called.
I stare at the window and wonder just what I have become. And not for the first time I am not sure I like the person I see in the window.