Honea Express

There are two cats in the room. One is white. One is black. I’m told that some website with a cheeseburger fetish has a name for them, something about a basement, a ceiling, heaven and hell. It sounds fairly racist to me. The cats are sleeping on a green rug. I feel a sudden urge to play a game of Othello. I resist it. The cats are locked in a heated battle of who could care less. We are all winners.

Through the kitchen, down the steps and into the living room there are two boys turning on a carousel. One moment they tug at war, the next gives peace a chance. It’s up and down and round and round and the echo of their laughter blends with the screams that lead and follow.

The youngest has a cough. Every hack heightens my senses. Every bark burns in my chest. He ignores the symptoms. They are an inconvenience. I feel a tickle in my throat and prepare for the worst.

The oldest is talking about his namesake, the middle one. John Lennon turns 70 tomorrow, or would have, and I tell him to imagine it. To give peace a chance. He tells me that his school had a lockdown drill today and they had to place their faces on the floor and wait there quietly. I try to imagine it.

The other night my wife woke me up sometime after midnight. There were bears on our street, a mother and two cubs. I could see them in the neighbor’s trash. I shone a flashlight on them and we looked into each other but for the darkness around us. I found it unnerving. No doubt they found it annoying.

It is Friday, late afternoon, and my work is not done. There are talks of dinner and shows we recorded after school night bedtimes. There are deadlines unmet and a dog that desperately needs a bath. The lawn could use a good mowing. People I know are losing loved ones. Children in schools are being shot. I have scripts to read and meetings come Monday. It is Friday, late afternoon, and I am sitting here still while the world spins madly on.

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And this brought a tear to my eye.

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