Daddy Issues!

Too often we hear about the sadness that results from dads falling short on their responsibilities. We blame absenteeism on dads. We blame inadequacies on unpaid child support. We blame dads (who’ve moved on and started new families) for those ill-feelings that the oldest kids experience. These are amongst the many things that cause their sons and specifically their daughters to have “daddy issues.”

Pardon me for a moment as I stand up for myself and the many fathers who have been upholding their responsibilities. It goes without saying that there are moms who will disagree. They may claim that these dads do not match the narratives that the moms have been feeding their kids. Well so be it!

The most important lesson that I’ve tried to teach my kids is that there are three sides to every story. There’s her side. There’s his side. And there’s the truth!

My kids got her side every time their mom was angry with me. Every time she observed that I was living my best life, my kids heard her side. Every time my kids told me why their mom was upset, they got to hear my side. And although I believed that I was going damage control, I was contributing to their confusion. I created a situation that forced them to decide for themselves what the truth was. And to be completely honest, they may never be built tough enough to handle the truths that either of their parents are capable of telling.

It’s story time! And the best stories are told about someone else’s drama. When it’s personal, it’s not drama. It’s trauma!

Comedian Chris Rock reminds dads that they have but one job. “Keep your daughters off the pole!” He goes on to joke that a daughter that didn’t get enough love may find herself getting even with dad by becoming an exotic dancer. It’s cringe worthy, and no less than horrifying. “Daddy issues,” he calls it.

The reality is that children who have had great dads develop daddy issues too. Kids who don’t get their way, kids who have alternatives to a caring dad, and kids who cling to moms who disparage their dad all risk developing “daddy issues.”

It’s sad that dads may be blamed for their children’s disappointments. As a dad who has fulfilled his responsibilities, I can point out that responsibility falls on parents AND children. Adulthood spans beyond blaming someone else. Raising children properly is not about giving them what they want. It’s about developing the tools necessary for our kids to get what they need.

Kids who have developed a sense of integrity are fully aware of their ability to choose their path. Our job as parents is to identify the obstacles and encourage our children to overcome them.

I want my children to achieve success with dignity. But sometimes it’s easier to blame dear ol’ dad. I suppose I could have fallen short in some ways, but I am not sure who gets to decide what the standards are (or whether a shortfall has occurred). Not mom. Not dad. And certainly not the kids. Who can be objective enough?

Daddy issues are unlike any other condition. Assigning accountability to anyone else doesn’t ring true quite the same way. One thing is certain. Thanksgiving dinners that don’t yield the biggest piece of meat for dad are very revealing.

Drive Down Memory Lane

It might make more sense to scroll all the way to the bottom, and read backwards until you come back to the beginning. After all, it’s not the destination, but the journey, that is the most important. 🧐

2021 Chevrolet Malibu

And lastly, is the first real new car purchase that will likely be my last. Purchased pre-pandemic, it didn’t track as many miles. My hopes are that my pleasure driving will replace my business driving; my desire to rest will usurp my need to capitalize; and love of cars will only fade amidst my desire to keep ONE.

2011 Chevy Suburban 2500HD

By far the most fun of all of my adult run-abouts! It was a recreation vehicle, a money-maker, a friend transporter, a mobile office, and a school bus. It facilitated advocacy, demonstrated efficiency, and inspired creativity.

2011 Cadillac CTS Coupe

By far the prettiest. It was enjoyed as an accessory, a fixture, and commodity. Like plenty of luxuries, it didn’t last as long as I would have liked. Depreciation, high-priced maintenance, low reliability resulted in a premature curbing.

1992 Lexus SC400

And then came the current project car. The first challenge was to give it an identity if it own. When, in fact, it’s become symbolic of passion that is lost and excess that is not consumed.

2008 Honda Accord Coupe

It was a classroom of sorts…

It was spotted in many places…

It served as a back drop to be more…

It served as inspiration to do more…

Memories were made…

After a round trip to Florida and becoming a hashtag king, it turned many heads. It was the one that mini-me learned to drive in, took her test in, and hoped would be hers.

This one was the hope and the promise that was never made. It’s the one that was almost paid off, but fate had other plans.

2003 Oldsmobile Bravada

When I asked either of my kids if they were interested in this one as a first car. They both replied, “ewwww!” So they both ended up with nothing.

First foray into municipal auto auctions yielded a $900 profit! It created a false sense of confidence. I registered this one to conceal the purchase price. I blew the profit on the next stratagem that never got registered. Irony?

2005 Dodge Charger POV

Elwood: “It’s an old Mount Prospect police car.” Jake: “The day I get out of prison, my own brother picks me up in a police car.”

Purchased sight-unseen, it took nearly 7 months to find a new owner who was even less profound.

And so the quest to find a project car began. This was Daddy’s failed attempt to either flip a municipal police car for profit or pickle a project car.

2005 Toyota Avalon Touring

This could not be the car that the kids learned to drive. Dad’s classiness would soon be traded for a practical trainer. Something cute and nimble perhaps?

As Dad took photos, he realized that he chronicled more than a love for automobiles. Soon the children would be driving too.

And Daddy’s princess was developing character of her own. As her character developed, daddy matured. There was reason to be more responsible. And few cars are more responsible than a Toyota.

2005 Dodge Ram SRT-10

Daddy needed a more family-friendly transport. Perhaps a peppy luxury sedan?

It had character, but remained in the driveway most of the time.

It was the fastest production truck ever made. It’s fuel economy was nearly the worst for any passenger vehicle at the time (second only to the Hummer H2) It could pass anything on the road except for a gas station!

Alas it was time to remove the old rescue squad truck from the back yard. What better way to commemorate Dad’s love of Dodges than to buy my own dream truck and name it after his old wooden sailboat Exta Sea?

2001 Lincoln Navigator

Three years later, two restless parents could not agree on one compromise. The compact car was sold to cover the retainer, but this SUV was a consolation prize for a dad who couldn’t get enough time with his kids.

1998 Honda Accord (white sedan)

But a week before my son was born, our previous Honda was pushed through an intersection and into a utility pole. Deployed airbags saved us all. The uninjured driver who disregarded the stop sign watched us take an precautionary ambulance ride. Our newborn son came home from the hospital in daddy’s newest ride.

1998 Honda Accord (blue sedan)

But it wasn’t long before my family grew and a need for another family-responsible auto. 4 cylinders for four family members only made sense when rising gas prices might prevent date nights and family outings.

2003 Suzuki Katana

Purchased with only a rider’s permit, I rode it for 7 days before my first accident. But as any dedicated rider would, I was back up and riding soon after…

1979 Honda CB650

Purchased from a fellow teacher, I was quickly schooled on motorcycle ownership. It wouldn’t be long before I stepped up to something faster.

1998 Dodge Ram SS/T

After 36k miles of spirited driving had prematurely ended the lease on the Audi, we needed a replacement. We returned the 180hp sport coupe 2+2 for a 3 seater with a lot more pep.

2001 Audi TT (180hp)

Shortly after my daughter arrived, her Daddy wanted something to develop her own enthusiasm for automobiles, or so it would seem. Rally racing and car shows were not uncommon.

1995 Ford Contour SE

The day that our baby shower was planned, I was given ONE JOB. I only had to distract my new bride while our friends and family planned the surprise. A trip to the car dealer fit the bill nicely. But when asked what my gift to the baby and mom-to-be would be, I gulped and offered this car that we were test-driving.

1940 Dodge Power Wagon Rescue Squad

Not long after I negotiated my first auto loan, I began to plan my family. I transplanted this old rescue squad truck from Salem, where my father had parked it nearly 25 years earlier.

It’s cruising days had long-since ended. But my new home became its new home, and it watched my family grow.

1995 Pontiac Bonneville SSE

My mileage checks added up to provide a down payment. Trading my stripped-down convertible covered the expense of the taxes and registration. This was the first and last time that I exploited a “push, pull, or drag your trade…”

1989 Toyota Tercel DX (5spd)

My first full time job after college graduation required me to commute 100 miles daily to Cape May. The mileage allowance alone paid for this tin can. With no radio nor carpet, the only luxury was a full-size spare. My shifting skills got some practice and I sold it six months later before the clutch revealed its ware.

1979 Dodge Ramcharger 4×4 Convertible

After an uninsured driver rear-ended my 83, my quest for a convertible Ramcharger yielded this beast! With a 2 inch body lift and a 2 inch suspension lift, the 35 inch tires fit beneath those wheel wells nicely. It too got terrible gas mileage and became more affordable to ride the bus to class.

1973 Dodge Challenger SE

I thought that every Motor-head should own a classic. In anticipation, I purchased this hot rod a few years before it became a classic. A cash advance on a college credit card was not the biggest mistake, but I think I may STILL be paying for this one.

1983 Dodge Shelby Charger (rare automatic)

My love of Dodges did not transfer into my other relationships well. This beauty was the first I bought for cash from a used car dealership. Although I bought it for my college sweetheart, her appreciation never manifested. Neither relationship lasted long enough.

1979 Ford Bronco

My best buddy nurtured a love of Fords. Despite my fondness of Dodges, I decided that if I ever had the opportunity, I’d acquisition a Bronco. I traded the pick-up for this beauty, but it needed more than I could offer. They joke that F O R D stands for something. But “on the road” it could not stay.

1984 Saab 900 Sedan

My freshman year in college, I met the Vice President Provost of the college. He became my mentor. He recognized my love of automobiles and made me a proposition: mow his lawn for the summer and this beauty would be mine. I fulfilled my end of the deal, but was never able to get it running. It sat in my yard until I graduated.

1979 Dodge Pick-Up 4×4 shortbed (5spd)

My uncle once warned me to never buy a used vehicle from a mechanic. But there were no rules about buying a vehicle for sale across the street from a mechanic. And so this beauty was my #2. A sunroof was cut into the roof and then resealed with caulking. The seats were always wet! It got 9 mpg because it was engineered with full time locking hubs for the four wheel drive.

1983 Dodge Ramcharger 2wd

My first car. I got it when I was 15 years old. My father challenged me to work hard in order to keep it. I did a landscaping job for the church for two years to earn enough money to put it on the road by my 17th birthday.

Twenty years later, my efforts to preserve it failed. The necessary disassembly never gave way to the goal of restoration.

In the end, the replaced engine got waterlogged, the rodents made their nests, and the wheels were stolen. Inevitable the junk man took what was left.

The plan is to sift through old registrations and bind all of my records (because I’ve saved them all) for each of these vehicles. Each insurance card, traffic ticket, and accident report is a story. Automobiles have lives. They are also apart of our lives.

I’ve always kept at least one key from each automobile that I’ve ever owned. I’ve created a makeshift shrine. Not long from now, a new project will begin. These autos will be exhumed. They will rise again from the ashes. They will be located and brought together, not just in spirit.

The ultimate hobby will soon begin. Their Vehicle Identification Numbers will live again. Not as zombies, but as wheeled angels. And those keys will be used not only to verify their identity, but to start their engines again.

Sliding In the DMs

Who has been sliding into your DMs? Most likely someone (who hasn’t been invited) thought they could be clever. Rather than offering a witty pickup line face to face, they may have decided to sneak a note into your “inbox.”

For decades now, clever communication has existed. At the dawn of the internet, AOL and MSN were offering the messenger and hotmail to rival traditional methods of reaching out and touching someone. Before then, anyone interested in speaking with you would have to ask you for your number. How archaic?

For a clearer picture as to what this means, let’s take a closer look at what “howtogeek.com” has to say about this.

“Sliding into DMs” means sending someone (who you might not know personally) a direct message on social media, often on Instagram or Twitter. It is commonly known as a flirtatious, romantic gesture to initiate a conversation or to ask someone out on a date. Therefore, if you message a person you’re attracted to on social media, you’re very likely “sliding into their DMs.”

Has this happened to you? Or more curiously, have you done this? Plausible deniability prevents you from incriminating yourself. But knowing that it occurs frequently is another story.

A number of my female friends have admitted that this happens often enough that they employ what we like to call the trifecta: ignore, screenshot, and block. And with editing capabilities on most phones, the names can be omitted to protect the culprits when posting the humorous flirtations on social media. It is trifling enough to keep a shy guy at bey.

My guy friends are not so quick to admit. Rejection is painful, but embarrassment is brutal. For those few guys who successfully employed this technique, they’re not going to reveal precisely how…

A “like” on social media is a seemingly innocent way to show interest. But for every ONE person who likes a post, there are dozens who saw it, but were not inclined to react. Everyone else can see when we make a move. No one wants to get caught “out there.” Sending a DM is supposed to be private. It doesn’t always end that way.

It’s the digital form of sending a note in class. But in this case, school is out…permanently.

Gals claim to receive DMs, but don’t admit to sending them. Guys send them, but don’t admit to receiving them. It takes a lot of confidence to send a message to someone you don’t know. But I bet it’s got to be strange to receive a message from someone you don’t know. In the end, I suppose if a connection is made, it’s worth the effort.

But an often overlooked concern in sending a DM is not having enough information. Sending a message to someone who is not interested or is involved with someone else could be disastrous.

Blind confidence can be a winning characteristic. But then again, it could be overwhelming burden. How do you know who you are dealing with if you only know their name (or worse their online handle)? How can you be certain to not cross an imaginary line or offend an otherwise unsuspecting suitor? In short, you can’t. All you know for certain is that a sent message will be received. It might not get a response. It might not have a happy ending.

A DM is a seed. Guys are planting seeds all of the time. So often, we may as well consider them farmers. But a seed alone is not fruitful without nurturing and care. Seeds planted in infertile soil will perish.

This is not a how-to. It’s merely something to ponder. DMs are but one way to get the ball rolling. Just because it’s private doesn’t mean that it has to be weird. Life is short. Act accordingly.

Eggs on First

I’m talking to myself, but my son is listening. I’m conflicted, but I can find no resolve. My son is shaking his head, but offering minimal input. The issue? Food!

Me: When I was a kid, there were 4 good groups.

Dylan: there are 5

Me: right! There are 5 food groups! I knew that…. Ok, like I was saying… meat, dairy, veggies, fruit, and grains. Five!

Dylan: Fish

Me: Fish is meat. Seafood is meat.

Dylan: sushi is seaweed. Seafood or vegetable?

Me: seafood is seafood; meat!

Dylan: corn?

Me: Vegetable. It grows from the ground. Wait! Grain, right? But vegetables grow from the ground like beans, peas, and other legumes.

Pumpkins are legumes. Wait. Pumpkins are fruit! Like watermelon and cantaloupe. They grow above ground. Like tomatoes! Tomatoes are a fruit. Wait. No. Tomatoes are a vegetable! They go in salads like lettuce (which also grows above ground). Salad? There’s nuts in a salad. Legumes! Grapes can be in a salad. Fruit! Wait…lots of things can be in a salad. Like croutons (grain) and chicken (chefs salad). Salad should not be the qualifier. Chicken is meat! It’s white meat like fish…

Dylan: seafood!

Me: As I was saying…white meat…

Dylan: Racist…

Me: huh? What? Stop it! Pork…

Dylan: Pig! 😳

Me: Is rabbit meat, white meat?

Dylan: Why? Because a rabbit has white fur 🐇? Ummm. No.

Me: I think it’s the texture. Chicken, duck, turkey, etc.

Dylan: Turkeys have dark meat.

Me: yeah, but it’s not red meat.

Dylan: isn’t all meat red meat because of the blood?

Me: 🧐

Also me: Fish bleed.

Dylan: vegetarian? Vegan?

Me: Pescatarian!

Dylan: Isn’t that a religion?

Me: Only if you worship fish. But if you did, you probably wouldn’t eat them. Alright. Enough! Let’s sum this up:

Five food groups! Some foods are questionable. Vegetables and fruits are interchangeable. Potatoes grow UNDER the ground. Vegetable…

Dylan: Starch

Me: huh, wait! No! Vegetable. Eggs are dairy.

Dylan: Protein. Shouldn’t eggs be meat? They come from chickens.

Me: Eggs are not to be eaten with chicken, but fine with pork.

Dylan: White meat!

Me: Grrr. Bacon is in the dairy isle with the milk and eggs and cheese and…

Dylan: …and orange juice! But oranges are fruit. Grapefruits are fruit. Apples are fruit. But Apple Jacks do NOT taste like apples and are not in the fruit aisle.

Me: well that’s because that’s a cereal to which we add milk.

Both of us: DAIRY!

Me: But milk comes from a cow, and a cow is meat. It’s in a different isle, is a different texture, and is MEAT!!

Dylan: Protein! Red meat! Not worshiped (by all), but tastes great with A1 steak sauce.

Hearts Don’t Lie

The heart is the organ that gets all of the honor and glory for keeping the body alive. Despite the brain operating in concert with the heart and the lungs, the heart owns our feelings, drives our will, and is held accountable when the brain makes rational decisions. It’s a travesty if you think about it.

Lungs are impacted by both the heart and the brain. Even though the lungs are paired, they are impacted by the conditions that they have no control over. And yet, poor breathing conditions impair the lungs, the heart, AND the brain. Over time, the decision to live in polluted communities or even smoke, vape, or breathe fire will wreak havoc on our quality of life.

Alas, our bodies are no circus attraction! Tattoos, piercings, dyed hair enhance our appearance, but they don’t make our heart beat any better. Skin is an organ too! But it also falls victim to the brain.

Come to think of it, the brain and heart work together AND against each other from time to time—mostly on matters of Love.

“The Heart Wants what the Heart wants…” is a ridiculous excuse to make bad decisions. This may merely be a euphemism for other organs that we won’t discuss here (except to say that they cause the most life-altering circumstances).

Darn it! The heart isn’t even the same shape as what we traditionally market on cards, candy boxes, and plush gifts. Those bulbous hearts actually represent other explicit body parts (that we also will not discuss)!

It’s so easy to get distracted while pondering the importance of the heart…and more specifically that the heart LIES. Yes, yes! It lies, it’s lied to, and it is manipulated by the other organs in what can only be described as a coup d’etas!

Alright, alright! Maybe that’s a little too enthusiastic. Charge it to my heart, and not to my head. (Do you see what just happened there?)

Please consider this matter when emphasizing how important your heart is to making day-to-day decisions. It can be stressful. And THAT is not good for the heart either.

[Common] Sense for Sale

This public service announcement is brought to you by rational people in an irrational world who are trying to make sense out of the decisions made by people who do not have common sense.

Below you will find a list of warning labels created because someone demonstrated that their injury could have been prevented if they had been warned. Books have been published using these and any MANY other warnings for pure amusement, but it must be noted that the individuals who need these warnings often overlook them.

As you read these warnings, please consider the circumstances by which these warnings were created. Think about other products that might warrant similar warnings. Pay homage to those who were insightful enough to conceive these warnings in time to save lives; and mourn those who weren’t fortunate enough to heed this warnings. And finally, accept the challenge to find similar warnings that are in dire need in these troubling times.

Please share this with a friend. And remember, it has never been a case of how it will end; only how we will start over.

Guilt-Free V-Days

Two days before Valentine’s Day, I find myself sitting at a kitchen table while my student reinvents herself through a group science project. A project that is designed for a group, yet doled out for an individual student while she’s on medical leave….

THIS is what I’m facilitating as a blog from one of my favorite bloggers catches the corner of my eye.

Beauty Beyond Bones is one of the few blogs I read–mostly because I get an email every time the author publishes. But it’s easy to proclaim a favorite when there aren’t many others for which I will sacrifice my time. For as long as I’ve been on this reflective journey as a blogger, her blog has caught my attention. I suppose it’s because her persona reminds me of someone who I once loved. I say this with no guilt, however. And that’s because I gave up guilt for lent nearly four years ago.

That’s right! I gave up guilt for Lent. Here’s why:

This person I once loved, she has a name. But for simplicity, let’s just call her Love. She had convinced me that she was the one the Lord held aside just for me. She’d been praying her whole life for what she called “my sweet king-to-be” (MSKTB) for which became the moniker for this blog thread. She waited her whole life–and I mean she WAITED.

Her unrelenting chastity was something I honored. I’d figured that she was worth the sacrifice especially since she’d already sacrificed so much. But as the years passed I began to question the validly of a “sacrifice” of something that was never experienced. I longed for the integrity of a pure relationship. After all, no relationship prior had yielding a godly outcome.

This particular relationship did not come without its conflict and confusion. This was uncharted territory for me. I’d been divorced for nearly five years. My beautiful children and much-needed experience where the fruits of that union. Alas I’d experienced a sex-free marriage. How hard could an abstinent courtship be?

And believe it or not, it wasn’t difficult at all. The challenge was understanding the “rules” of an abstinent relationship. Love, well she didn’t make it easy. This courtship, as she called it, forced me to recall medieval times when marriages were arranged and fathers held the key to the mystical chastity belt. Weird!

It made me wonder if there were occasions where restricted access was circumvented somehow. Or if the whole concept was more-or-less a myth. I suppose I had a front row seat to my own private show. It was an interactive one-act play where I was both the star AND the antagonist. It hinged on torture, but Love led me to believe that it was necessary to truly appreciate the sanctity of marriage.

She had a hold of me. To my circle of friends, it looked like a circus. I thought I was the lion-tamer. Nah, I was merely one of the clowns (the one without the makeup).

As our relationship entered its first Lenten season, I asked her if she’d given any thought to what sacrifice she’d make for 40 Days. I figured it would be akin to my own fast of soda or chocolate. No! Hers was much deeper!!

Intimacy!

Huh? What?

I was confused. How much more un-intimate could we be??? I pressed her for an explanation. She obliged.

She said she’d spoken to God about it, and he told her to take her sacrifice deeper.

I thought this was a joke. But Love doesn’t joke about God. I began to plead with her. And then I realized that there was no integrity to in that at all. So I encouraged her to explain further. She said “no touching!”

Yeah ok.

“No kissing…”

Huh?

“No lustful gazing…”

To which I replied, “where will you be staying?”

This is where she became confused. I continued.

“When you spoke to God, did he tell you where you’d be staying when you come to visit me?”

I realized at that moment that I was venturing into a very ugly territory from which there’d be no return. But there was no turning back.

I gestured gingerly, “Hun, I know that you come a long way to see me. I know the sacrifice that you make to be with me. You are tired when you arrive, and most weekends you want to lay down; which results in you spending the night.”

“But you’ve also got to realize the challenge that comes from you spending the nights here when my children are home–the challenge created from trying to model this righteous behavior in the face of being “chased”.

My daughter had begun to emulate pristine behavior. She asked for a purity ring of her own. She spoke of the importance of waiting…

What father wouldn’t want that? Now I was offered an opportunity to step up. I’m not taking one for the team. I’m embracing a responsibility far greater than a “man-in-waiting” (is there such a thing?); or was my search for masculinity manifesting into a fatherly responsibility?

It didn’t matter. For a moment–perhaps minutes at best, Love melted. Her eyes gazed upon me and I felt appreciated.

But that too was confusing for me. And so I did what I do best. I stuck out my chest and…

Ruined it!

She asked me lovingly, “what will you give up for Lent?”

“Guilt! I’m giving up guilt!”

Love was lost.

I defended that if God was going to have a private conversation with my love, I was going to assert my role in my relationship with God. I looked up to the ceiling and continued, “you can’t stay here, wear sexy pajamas in my kitchen, tell me I can’t look at, touch, or kiss you and stay here. It’s teasing and it’s mean.”

Well maybe I didn’t say it was mean. It was a bad memory. What do you want from me?

“I Am giving up guilt for lent!” The Lord died for my sins. The fornication, the lust, the adultery, and all the other illicit stuff that I reluctantly confess to. I don’t need to harbor any guilt.

I sorta thought that I should have consulted a priest on this one, but…

I’m not catholic.

Love left that night. She went home to her father’s house where he and her mother later praised me for raising my own daughter to be a queen. I’m not sure how I felt about that, but…

Now THAT Ash Wednesday did not fall on Valentine’s Day (like it does this year), but the sheets have been cold ever since. Well, cold on Valentine’s Day at least.

As a middle-aged man who is on the cusp of denial, I will love myself this Valentine’s Day. And once you get your mind out of the gutter, you’ll probably do the same.

In case you didn’t know, the boxes of chocolate go on sale after 6pm at most pharmacies. And the Ex-lax is a few isles over.

Happy Ash Wednesday!

Legacy

How will they find you?  In your last moments, what words will you whisper?  What is the meaning of life? Will your love come through?

People go by.

And most will be indifferent.  Every caloric cell in our bodies exists for the purpose of interacting with the world. What we consume directly correlates with our exhaustion.  Our time here is as relevant as what we do with our hours.  We are bound until we come unwound…unwind(ed), and it only makes sense when we stop trying to make sense of it all.

There are no answers…just more questions.  And the unresolved conflicts have value only to the conflicted.

Conflict

Inflict

Re-trick

ReMIX

We get one shot till we are resurrected.  The weary don’t want to be resuscitated.  Even the mythical creatures don’t want to be among the undead.

Zombies

Some bees

Red trees

Bad knees

Give me no surgeries.  I want to die when my number is up.  But only the good die young.

I’ll live forever.

In better weather…

Till death do us part.

But when WE are gone, our legacy lives on.

But I’m no MLK or Malcolm.

What will your tombstone read?  Mine will be blank.  Shucks the rest of my fam is cremated.  I yearn for no urn. My ashes won’t be creamy.  After all, I like my coffee BLACK.

My blackness will be black.  My whiteness is more grey.  My grey hair, once bald, will curl like my toes–quite bare.

Summer has fallen.  Autumn is autonomous.  December’s solstice has lost us.  Spring will be sprung no more.  In our final years, we will reflect on the memories once met.  Our legacy will mean more to those who loved us most.

So what will your legacy be?   It need not be poetry.  Even lost sight can see.  None of this was meant to be.