Bittersweet.
The only word which can sum up this day. Tears and laughter. And a lot of drunk white people. But they’re my family. My brothers and sisters. If not “in Christ,” at least “in crap.”
My co-workers. The others who bail the water out of this sinking ship beside me. Some will remain, tied to the benches, smiling through the eye-stinging spray of the salty; Others have been lost at sea - some jumped overboard. We are still not sure whether to envy them or not. Their labour is done, but their loss will be felt.
But I don’t do maritime illustrations. The family image is better, and our table is not as full as it once was. And now we will be expected to welcome strangers in with open arms; bastards who are being adopted to replace the not-even-close to prodigal. Not that this is their fault, but don’t piss in my cup and tell me it’s lemonade. It won’t all simply be “better” or “alright.”
You have attacked our kin. You’ve robbed us of our birthright, which was nothing more than to grow old together. You’ve raised the hackles on our necks. There will be a reckoning.
For now we sit, staring at the empty places with tears. Praying for a miracle. A raising from the dead, and cursing the fear of more departures from our home before the next meal. It is a time of mourning, mixed with celebration.
. . . [groans which cannot be uttered, but You know . . .
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“Somebody told me it’s the end of the world, but that’s just for some: Peace to the dead; Strength to the chosen.” ~ Black Thought
Quicksand Millenium