His shadow is long on the still cool pavement when I roll past him, like the hands of a primitive clock.  He stands watch over this stretch where I-20 feeds into 75/85 North and the snarl of metal begins to mark the morning chug away from homes and families and leisure. 

They sit in their vehicles and creep grudgingly along, unconsciously / habitually attempting to one-up the vehicle next to them oblivious that at 2 miles per hour one car length doesn’t much matter.  “They” becomes “we” as time is marked with thumbs bouncing off any available surface in time with musical ruckus, or not at all with wrists draped lazily over steering wheels the and a glassy stare at the horizon as we inch towards oblivion in unison.  We slide towards our hours under 20 candle foot lights strategically placed to blind us with a glare off our monitors or standing in front of a register with bad backs and knees or running wires in walls or arranging flowers to be delivered with messages of love / remorse / congratulations / condolences. The Job.

And there he is, like a misplaced smile gracing the face of stranger on a crowed street in Manhattan - this lone, one-man, traveling toll booth.  He’ll smile and nod at the promise of your kindness, eager to reciprocate what hasn’t yet been given yet and may never be.  He’ll dig into his heart and provide what meager bits of himself he can, offering a slice of generosity and humanity in the abstract – a pedestrian on a freeway.  Offer him a fraction of the funds needed to fuel his body he’ll walk along with you for a stretch, shake your hand and bless your day.

It’s not my regular path to work, and on the rare occasions I’m given the opportunity to experience him, I welcome the interaction. I welcome the chance to shift my thoughts to something different, something brilliant and unconventional and random.

He’s a living reminder that each of our lives is wonderful glorious dance - if you make a choice to see it that way. We’re each a witness.

Happy Monday, babies.

Office / catch-all / bane of my existence

Staying in Atlanta 11 years ago when my father passed away wasn’t a huge decision for me, it was one that made itself.  My mother had been gone for years, my siblings had their own lives and my new step mother had her own life to recreate.

I was on my own.

Being on the other side of the country from my siblings has its advantages – we’ve learned to appreciate and miss each other and we come to realize when we’re in close quarters for more than a few days that if we lived any closer we probably wouldn’t be on speaking terms.

It’s a lovely evolution and a decent balance, given our options with regard to the miles, our sensitivity towards the time we do have together is heightened and the respect we’ve been able to gain for each other is boundless.

It’s fitting then, that this week when I seem to be struggling more than normal, my sister would send a care package for my housewarming: an amazing and beautiful sea foam green Sari, sparkly dots for body décor and a note cheering me on.

It’s fitting too, that The Uncle Danny would make a surprise pit-stop in Hotlanta on the way from Kentucky back to his home in Florida.  The Uncle Danny is my fathers baby brother, the only one of the sibling set without an accent, and my God Father. As my brother Kevin is always quick to note at family gatherings, “I forget how much he looks like dad.”

It’s true.  The perfectly round crystal blue eyes, the prematurely white hair, and the little bulb on the end of his nose that only my brother Brian inherited.

It’s odd how family seems to know via some sort of immeasurable undetectable bond when they’re needed most.

(I have a hard time making a straight face when there’s a camera involved)

Random #895

Why some grown men shouldn’t be allowed to play softball.

Not feeling well yesterday I left the office at 3 and was in bed by 4.  After a 14 hour slumber, I still feel like ass.  My thoughts and my emotions are vapor.

Thanks to all for the kind words yesterday, they’re appreciated…even if they don’t change the state of affairs they warmed the cockles of my tiny cold black heart.

Darling Readers,

I miss you.

Without to amuse me with your biting wit and sarcasm in my comments yesterday I had nothing better to do than contemplate why it felt like I had a boog hanging out of my honker even after I’d repeatedly checked and verified that - in fact - there wasn’t. I hate that.

Love,

Maigh

P.S. Wikipedia’s entry for boogers is lacking.