Richard's Raspy Resolutions

Richard couldn’t sleep. He had a bad chest cold, which woke him up at 3:00 am every night. At 62, his insomnia was a bit of a plague. He even used a breathing machine to help with the snoring that prevented him from getting real REM cycle rest. 

It was the night of January 2, 2017. It was a chill night in Jacksonville, Florida. Too cold of a night to open the window and be lulled to sleep by the midnight breezes. So, instead, Richard went to his desk to look through the pile of papers where he collected his poems and writings. Sometimes, hearing his voice from years past would bring a comfort unlike anything he might find on TV.

He rifled through the crisp pile of papers and came across his resolutions essay from the year prior. He decided to reconsider those thoughts and see if he still felt the same way.

Now Richard loved to rhyme. He found poems, limericks and silly rhymes to be endlessly amusing. So his resolutions of 2016 were written in free verse. There were some loose couplets, a bit of mirth and a somber tone. He often fell into a morose, Shakespearean writing style when he tried to write the things that were really profound. It was rather annoying. 

He smoothed out the crumpled paper, wished he were peacefully sleeping, and sighed. He began to read the old resolutions, that list of reflections he’d written just four years past. 

The list began like this:

Expect to lose some Christmases,​They’re only days, one in 365. So say adieu and wait with grace for the next glad tiding to return.

Richard coughed. Then he smiled with delight as he thought about the words and cleared his mucousy throat. Yes, he thought, we’re always in danger of losing our favorite holidays. And this year, mine was stolen by this drat cold. I suppose I will have to wait another 365 days and hope next year’s white Christmas won’t bring another bronchitis chill.

He continued to read his resolution poem. He had given it the title “Measures”. 

In days between, mortal babes will birth. Each terrifying treasure springs on expectant and unprepared parents, Uniquely formed creature bringing tears, fears, delights.

This verse made him think of little Leah, his unexpected 4th granddaughter. Yes, she had brought her parents both joy and pain. No one quite realizes the chaos a fourthborn can bring.

He kept reading: 

Morning will break with dreadful sun, heavy, hot, unrelenting and uncaring. Many circumspections of the earth, falling like sticks upon a drum, Demanding steps ever forward, ever on.

Yes, another reflection Richard still felt full conviction of. The Florida sun was just too damn hot. Let’s see what else, he thought.

To walk, to eat, to see, to hear—demands participation in this role of existence, being, going, doing. Knowing more than we understand.

Well, that verse is rather droll he thought. The mood of this poem was starting to annoy him. He decided it was the perfect time for a small glass of whiskey. He poured from his decanter of $30 booze and added 2 ice cubes. He took one sip. Ah, that warmed the throat. 

You will be we with the world. You will be me without the many. You will be us apart from others. You will be I for the people. You will be you against, and through and by the human race. 

Ah! A philosophical observation. Seems like a bit of nonsense he supposed. However, he decided that it did rather capture the nuance of relationship. People can be so very fickle sometimes.

One discovery henceforth prepare to make, Awareness all of within – that potential for, capacity of and even penchant to Wreak havoc on those you hate and those you love and those you even think not of. Acknowledge within how minutes make us almost murderers, slanders, cheaters, harm causers and evil ignorers.

Another sad verse. He took a heavy sip of whiskey. His mind flashed with thoughts of plane crashes, Hollywood drama, politics and princesses. Yes, there’s a lot of bad business out there with the news these days. Maybe if he could just finish reading this poem quickly, he could finally get some much needed sleep. He yawned, adjusted his reading light and continued.

Forget not how often, easily and deeply we can fall prey to our desires, perversions and calling, singing mellifluous counterfeit charms.

Richard thought about Solomon, about vanity and fleeting beauty. He stared at the brown syrupy whiskey in his hand.

We are broken, yet still breaking harborers of cruelty. But still. Noble monstrosities ignite majesty and goodness. Artisans of living, loving and creating. We sculpt. We bend. We carve in stone and dirt, Legacies of beauty and of greatness.

Richard smiled. Now, there’s a bit of nobility in humans after all. This verse made him think of vacations to Europe as a child. How he used to love the largeness of marble sculptures.

Our breakfast bowls hold familial warmth. Our river-rippling movement of knucklework when hands build fortresses and fingertips drip upon papers, faces and foundations.

The thought of breakfast made him sad. Breakfast bowls were the cheery days he spent with Eve and his children before the cancer came. 

Our sounds. Our skyscraper and sky swimmers – the feats of space and movement. Kingly inspiration sends us burning through time, seeking to christen centuries with the depth and breadth and talent of molded meaning. Life comes. Life threaten to destroy and be the thief of hope. Life quakes.

It was time for a snack. There was some cold pizza waiting in the fridge. Richard didn’t bother to warm it up, even though that might have helped his cold. He chewed at the tomato goodness.

Bridging us from the plummeting chasm where we would lose grip and steadiness of foot upon earth may find, the soldering hold of friendship; a soul that can surpass itself and grasp within another. This sweet comfort and bastion not kindled so greatly with laughter as disaster can reach to grave things buried deep and drowned beneath a wrinkled brow can come and soften the beating sun, quicken the slowing days and ripen the bark and roots of a mind that alone knows only madness.

How I miss Eve, he thought. His wife had been the greatest friend he’d ever known. She would hate this New Year’s poem, he thought. There was no one quite like her.

All idle, noiseless, frozen cold and mummified this lesson, these words, without the breathe that breathed a heartbeat into this mouth and voice seeking to arm and ease a coming generation—Know ye well to marry your faith –the marrow and money you would spend to survive the oft-diseased and crystalline-pleasured task of living – to the goodly, never ceasing father. Hold fast in this blind, terrifying, safe embrace of God, the first I am.

Richard nibbled on the last bit of pizza, and glanced at his rosary. He loved those blue beads dearly. Augh, he really should go to mass next Christmas.

Find courage, rest, strength and warmth in this believing. Taste the feast of heard prayers and deferred hopes. Splendor and grace lie within the promises proclaimed from oldest book.

Richard thought about reading his bible once he finished the poem. He remembered that Eve had given him his first bible on their fourth date.

Tame the terrors vying for allegiance. Quiet the imprudent screams of fraudulent mirth and empty sustenance of decaying food inept to fill. Seek the merriment and solace of trusting –learning how to demand tomorrow’s joy—and sharing the forward path of days with you in step and anchored by another soul. Love God and wait.

So, that’s the end of this diatribe, he thought. What a wise ol’ racket. Maybe this year, he should instead write a limerick. That could be fun. Eve would like that. He coughed. He cleared his throat and sighed in a bit of breathing pain. Oh, I am sick of coughing he thought. And promptly went back to bed.