One day no one will tell you and I to stay inside, not shake hands, nor go shopping at odd hours as we wish. All the things we call “freedom” will be free again after the brave among us care for us, bring food, call “How are you?” from a distance or send us life-giving dollars from the coffers of America. My existence is this moment: guitar, laptop, emails, texts, videos, pretty good movies. Have faith, we are still companions wishing each other safety and good luck and sending prayers and, oh yes, safety.
We won’t be so tribal in our closeness. So underfoot the noisy laughing children. Yet, we’ll look back before this moment. We’ll relive memories of ordinary strength we did not know we had. There are those in Pittsboro and all of America who give and give from a reservoir so deep and simple it begs the mind to understand.
I am inside and alone. I’m very “at-risk” and can do no more than push out a few dollars here and there. I feel helpless. At the same time I feel you all out there and I know you’ll be there when we reach the other shore together.
As I pluck the threads of my life
by brad page
And each strand unravels,
The fantasies of the hero
Fall to the floor
For a kitten to frolic in.
Great plans sparkle yet.
Perhaps that Light after death
Awaits in the next instant,
The breath I grasp upon my breast.
Oh, I do hope change is possible,
That nightly starry skies,
Or a few full moons yet peer
Through the thin cloud cover.