Destined / Chance

“Holy shit!”

That’s what you say right before the big black out, not something prophetic or memorable, but a base utterance steeped in a casual strain of blasphemy. In the fleeting seconds that the words take form and flight, your brain cycles through a million images, memories plastered on a spinning reel. You brace for the impact of all the accumulated choices, stunned by the inevitability. The blur of your life becomes a recognizable whole.

you shouldn’t have read that extra chapter last night of Trudy Jas' latest novel / if only you hadn't hit the snooze button this morning (the result of reading too late) / why did you take that call from Aunt Evelyn? / should have picked up those prescriptions before stopping at the liquor store / come on, necessity before desire, but that's always been a lax concept for you / or my favorite, when you beat yourself up over lingering in the shower with thoughts of him / clean and go / no lingering

You could have gotten ahead of this catastrophe if you could get out of your own head, escape the vacuousness of your self-doubt. Propelled, prodded and disowned. You have always been your worst enemy and savior. 

You ruminate over the idea that if just one of the many incidents were changed, altered, or edited, you wouldn't be right here, right now, watching it all digress into the ultimate nothingness. Your measly existence hinged on picking up that call from Auntie, and it's a solid punch in the gut. Breathtaking in how it leaves you gasping for air.

No one wants to say it outright. You are either tethered to an indiscriminate randomness or careening headfirst to a destiny for which you have no control. In either case, the reality will have you up all night, staring at the ceiling fan in its endless revolution. You could have sworn it reversed course, a sudden stopping of the fan blades, a concentric circle backwards to a place of serenity and longing. There was a place of intermittent sprigs of happiness, the flowers lost in the fog.

With little else to distract you, the ranking of regrets begins, an order that is shifting and all-consuming:

not moving to NYC with Frank / stealing that piece of Brach’s candy and hiding behind the sofa at age five / that curt, unnecessary comment to the fast food cashier / hurting Dave with your penchant to flee safe relationships / inadvertently hitting that airborne owl with your car / lying to your niece about being busy during the dance recital / letting the daisies die because you couldn’t muster the energy to water them / cheating on that algebra exam / co-opting, no stealing, that black shirt from your roommate… being untrue to the core.

Isn’t that the biggest elephant in the room? 

You worried and hustled your life away, saved for material things that will end up in an estate sale, a heap of trinkets, a valueless menagerie headed to the landfill.

a smell of waste / a bitterness that you swallow / an angst that bleeds into an understanding, an ephemeral, hurtful needing / wretched, watchful loneliness when you realize the physical things perish

The cacophony of voices ring in your head, singling out the unheeded truths. SLAM it down and walk away, but you know this time there is nowhere to run. You have to face the unsettled uneasiness. Admitting you were wrong is the first step, and you think of him, that lovely voice.

“People fail to live in the moment,” he says the words with a nonchalance, turning back to face your tired exterior.

Concentrating on his high hair line, the dark curls on top of his head a needed distraction, you take a swig of the hard alcohol, the ice cubes rattling.

Leaning downward, he rests his elbows on the bar counter, the palms of his dry hands holding his face. You never noticed his underlying handsomeness.

He looks you squarely centered, a piercing edge to the words that follow, “You have come in here more times than I can count, sad, sometimes elated, but never focused. You’re bound up by things that don’t even know you exist. I know you exist.”

You don’t want the recognition or the kindness, because you might be propositioned for a reciprocation.  Best to shirk off emotion.

“Aren’t you being philosophical?” you offer up, twirling the ice around the emptiness in the glass.

The music in the joint is haunting and melodic. He smirks with a slight shake of his head, anticipating your coy aversion.

“You really don’t want anyone to hold your hand at the end, do you?” A question meant to be unanswered.

He continues, “That’s okay, keep pushing everyone to the edges, Samantha. I think that’s where you feel most comfortable. Alone.”

The tears hold in the corners of your eyes, gritting them back with a weighty resolve. You won’t give him the satisfaction of being right. He is limited in his analysis. How much can he really know when all he pours are drinks?  Bartenders aren’t sages.

That thought cracks against your skull with the impact of night’s ascent. You are alone. You always have been and the trajectory is wrought.

a wheezing brokenness \ a cry for help \ yes, why won’t you call now Aunt Evelyn? \ spare the heartache

When you roused in bed earlier this morning, your eyes focused on his mass of curls, tinted with a hollow grey, the stamp of time. If only you had kissed his cheek or tousled his hair, given him the reassurance that he was the one, let him know his summation was faulty. The oncoming headlights, blindly and nimbly, eclipse any further emotion, suspended between a heaven and hell of your own making.

Die \\\\

Live ////

Scream at the universe for all that it got wrong and for all that you ignored. You pull the steering wheel to the right, hoping to avoid the collision, cursing at this intrusion into your psyche and state of being. Heart palpitations bouncing out of your chest, a sucking in of all of the earth’s air, followed by the gentlest silence.

There is a fading, and a smile, and a permanent ceasing, as I take your hand.