Nobody Reads This Page: “A Journey, Interrupted” (Part One)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

“Pain and guilt can’t be taken away with the wave of a magic wand. They’re the things we carry with us, the things that make us who we are. If we lose them, we lose ourselves. I don’t want my pain taken away. I need my pain!” - William Shatner

 

For nearly a decade after the end of my career in retail management, I have been living a routine best described by evoking the visual image of a speeding train. Rolling forward at a pace unhindered by too much introspection or self-analysis. With conditions of disability mounting, and resources dwindling, I simply tightened my circle and went about the business of existing in the moment. It is a plan executed on the basis of practicality and need, not to attain any personal desire. And for more than nine years, it has worked well enough to celebrate on a regular basis.

 

I have maintained my independence through a blend of determination, and luck.

 

But a recent detour from this journey arrived as I noted that the skin on my lower, left leg had begun to peel. It was a curious sight, to be sure. Almost as if I had suffered a severe sunburn between my knee and ankle. Except that I knew no such injury had occurred. I did not fall, or bruise myself. There was no point of contact with a sharp edge or stubborn piece of household furniture. I had simply manifested some odd sign of circulatory issues, which persisted for several days afterward.

 

I watched this area carefully for about a week, and noted that it had reddened in color, and spread along the axis of my limb. This reminded me of chronic conditions I had witnessed with my mother, brother, and sister over a period of years. That familiarity was troubling, and also, motivational. I immediately contacted my primary-care physician via an online app for University Hospitals, a health provider based in Cleveland with local centers around my region.

 

I had expected to be immediately called in for an exam, but lingered for another seven days before being given a face-to-face appointment. I guessed by the progression of my wound, that there would be some kind of cleaning, followed by a compression wrap for good measure. But when I was able to reveal my issue directly, in a patient room, the reaction of my doctor came swiftly.

 

She sent me to the Emergency Room at Geneva Hospital, without delay.

 

Due to strong genes and the benefit of good habits, I had never needed to seek attention under such drastic conditions. But upon entering the ward as a new guest, I was immediately processed and put in a temporary room where a series of tests and scans began to happen. A portable x-ray machine took images of my lower extremity. It reminded me of a robotic creation intended for use in a science-fiction series. An IV drip of antibiotics was hung and connected to a spike in my left arm. There were checks for blood pressure, oxygen levels, and a lengthy list of questions about how this issue had arisen.

 

As these frantic events transpired, episodes of Spongebob Squarepants played on a flat-screen monitor, overhead. That ironic backdrop kept me amused during my confinement.

 

Assessing the leg ulcer in medical terms was not difficult. I had suffered an opening in my flesh, with an infection resulting which aggravated the limb. I did not have any other symptoms which were related to that kind of problem, however. No chills, fever, dizziness, or trembling. Yet my path, unfortunately, was clear.

 

I was a matter of hours from turning 65, and had never spent the night in a hospital facility. But now, with my fate sealed by happenstance, I was about to meet this experience head-on, much like falling from a cliff into a canyon, below.

 

Instead of channeling the vibe of Patrick Star, I now assumed the demented groove of Wile E. Coyote.

 

The bed on which I had been placed was a minimalist provision. Functional as a necessary appliance, but no more. It quickly chafed my posterior, and caused an ache of discomfort. Eventually, because I had lingered for so long, aides on the staff relocated me to a different space that was slightly larger, but situated next to an elevator used by nurses and other employees. The persistent noise added to my uneasiness, though I remained wholly distracted by the original purpose of my visit.

 

Blood samples had been taken, and were being analyzed as I waited. I managed to find a televised baseball game being played by the Cleveland Guardians, and viewed that lively sporting event from my corner of the room.

 

I had already lost track of the time, but was unaware. A palpable sense of detachment had taken hold. I was sinking deeper into the drama of a tissue inflammation.

 

A scheduler on the team said that I would be sent to Conneaut, for further examinations and treatment. But I reacted immediately to her decision. I knew that the distant facility would be inconvenient for my own family, who all lived in Hambden Township, near the City of Chardon, and Geauga Hospital.

 

“Why can’t I stay in the area instead of being sent so far from home? I have no desire to get shipped out to any random care depot!”

 

I thought that my opinion had been expressed politely, and in diplomatic terms. But after a long interval, the same woman appeared in my doorway, with a plea to accept being trafficked to the spot she had suggested, before.

 

“Mr. Rodney, we are sending you to Conneaut very soon, Your transport will arrive shortly...”

 

Her admonition snapped me out of my lethargic, mental state. It was now long past sunset, and I had become sore, stiff, and decidedly cranky.

 

“Ma’am, I told you before that I need to stay closer to home. Geauga Hospital is my regular destination, when seeking care for friends, relatives or neighbors. I do not want to go anywhere else!”

 

My tone of voice reflected the urgency and irritation that I felt. Before I could continue, the assistant fled in a huff. I attempted to offer a slight apology for being grouchy, but the point had been made. A period of silence and regret followed.

 

During my adventure as a store co-manager for Giant Eagle, employees sometimes observed that I had the ability to morph from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde, on cue. When needed, I could project that alternate personality to achieve goals that were important to the business.

 

After midnight, with a hush of activity having descended on the ward, I finally received notice that my wish to stay local would be granted.

 

Outside, an ambulance was waiting. The two-man crew arrived as I was battling grogginess and fatigue. Their gurney appeared to be even more restrictive, and less hospitable, than the bed I had been occupying. A reality that I found difficult to accept.

 

For the first time, I was struck by an epiphany of woe. When would I ever go home again?

"Cream Ale Conversation"

 

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

Black boots kick the pavement

Leather soles slide forward as wheels turn and bite

That spectacle causes me to grin at sunset

Ready for an evening ride

The light of day grows pale and thin

While I confess being sidelined for too long a time

With the cares of an aging rebel in effect

Weighing heavily on body and mind

As a younger man I would have lodged a protest

Over sitting silently as the continuum commenced

But now, with my bones aching from fits of fatigue

I’m left to wait it out by a chain-link fence

Humble and hobbled on my spot

Not given to accepting this plot twist

I want to drop my machine into gear

And turn the throttle with my wrist

Jerry Kay and his wife named Beanie

Had their farm on a dirt road outside of town

I used to drink whiskey and eat frog legs, fried

While listening to his travel tales go ‘round

Ruby rode a scrambler put together from junkyard bits

He seemed to think it was a superior steed

Gary remembered Vietnam, and coming home empty

All of those characters were born of a different breed

I never got choosy about what to imbibe as a kid

Red wine, or tequila, any concoction had me taking a pledge

I did my best not to appear naïve and feckless

Among those wild warriors who danced on the edge

Alan with his Volks Van, a loaf of bread on rubber hoops

With a four-speed stick at the hilt

We ran that bus out to the main route

Forty air-cooled horses at full-tilt

Seeing concerts by bands who we idolized

Heroes all, living as we wanted to be

But I never quite got to that level

Stocking shelves at the local P & C

Diamond Dave, with his Datsun wagon creaking along

A taxi driver, from whom we all bummed a lift

He must have been cold-blooded, like a reptilian rover

That role of friendship never caused him to quit

Those benefactors were my reason to experiment

Bette and Sandy, and a dozen more in the aftermath

They steered me away from the rock cliffs of peril

Gave me the impetus to pursue my craft

I had a typewriter, bought for a tenner

And carried that relic around as if it were a prize

Keys jamming, and a cloth ribbon, full of holes

On that platform, I dared to improvise

I could not guess where my adventure would lead

A fledgling fool, who intended to write

I tapped out tomes until my fingers went numb

And my second-hand desk had a garnish of ink white

Mohawk hair and black-leather skin

Zippers and razor blades, hung to offend

Sometimes I got followed by the gendarmes

But I always found a way to make amends

Sleeping under a bridge abutment

The concrete dust causing me to cough

Drunk and disorderly when I had a crew to hang with

Then out of money, and generally pissed off

That was the lifestyle of a wanderer walker

I never had my own transportation of any kind

At the wheel, I was a dangerous apprentice

Too careless and eager to leave my identity behind

That gamble brought a payday that I did not expect

My cards read like an obituary, coined at a bus stop

Though anyone who watched must have known right away

That I was about to fall fatefully from the mountaintop

A low-budget film became my biographer’s tool

A spinning reel of celluloid, in black-and-white, reserved

That saga on the silver screen, depicted my downfall

And a VHS tape kept it well-preserved

If I take that magnetic brick out of the cabinet

Those recollections still part the veil

And I find myself knees-down on the floor

With a lingering taste of good fortune, and Genessee Cream Ale

“Emperor”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

The emperor is naked

But his appetite must be sated

No one in this camp will admit to being aware

They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, under the stairs

Stuck in the broom closet, like a forgotten Christmas gift

Fearing the rise of a tribal rift

A spat between allies

Who struggle in the darkness, behind closed eyes

Among their membership

They huddle in a hurry when polls take a dip

Down, down goes the magical clown

After the circus has left our town

Red nose robbed with a two-finger pinch

In bygone years, staying strong was a cinch

But now the weight of bad decisions and war

Cause the faithful to wonder what they’ve been fighting for

Tariffs and insults pop like kernels in hot oil

A whistle of warning, a kettle on the boil

Somewhere, adversaries are stunned and gleeful

Over happenstance mistakes that tug and pull

At the horse’s tail

Not enough breadcrumbs left to form a trail

So the riddlers must take care

To track footprints left by those who were unaware

Of this void, waiting to be filled

A messy splash of tea being spilled

While the naked monarch rides high

And his judgment is nigh

An orange tan glistening in the light of day

Bright and boastful while on parade

Standing stiffly in silent repose

They compliment the gleam from new set of clothes

Dutifully starched and pressed

No citizen of the republic could have guessed

How grand that sight must be

When seen through the lens of antiquity

A thousand warriors shed their blood as a sacrament

And that offering left a mark on the pavement

Washed away when thunderstorms raged

And history turned the page

But in the heart of a negligent, narcissistic knave

It seems understandably brave

A leap into the lore of kings and queens

Who lived to be worshipped, by any means

Now, the remnants of that gilded acclaim

Are a gawker’s remorse, standing out in the rain

A conquest, joyfully joined

A ruling reputation, purloined

At the bottom of a chasm, deep and forlorn

This unclothed babe will swing ‘round the saddle horn

Giggling with glee

Jackboots kicking high, from the knee

As soldiers march skillfully, to a cadence of drums

And a retort of black-powder guns

This is the world in which we now reside

An inner sanctum of secrets scrawled in chalk, on the outside

Yet read in a language never voiced aloud

Not a statement of courage to be shared with the crowd

Heads lowered like a banner at half-staff

A snicker and snort when the master rolls past

Regal in his invisible attire

Perched proudly, this jaybird on a wire

If there were even a few, righteous souls intact

Then these cities might be spared from attack

But temptation lingers with the stale stink of must

As the naysayers proclaim, “In him, we trust!”

Our majestic potentate

Depicted on a slab of virgin slate

Exposed but unseen

This glimmer and gleam

Flashes before the spectators who pause

To make a contribution to the holy cause

The irony sticks in my throat

He rides tall in public, with no trousers or a petticoat

Strutting gaily along the avenue

For the approval of rascals and rubes

And praise from the supplicants

Who howl and rant

About an almighty figure, foretold

Handed down in the ink inscriptions of a scroll

His prophecy fulfilled in a wager

Over dice cast from the hand of a stranger

And shells moved in sequence

While we wallow in the essence

Bare-bottomed is the beast

Come ye all, to the feast!

“Lost”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

Running out of confidence, with the year at its end

Waiting for the season to change, once again

And knowing that will leave me behind

Truly out of sight, and out of mind

I am often homebound for days and weeks

With little to expect but a lonely streak

It is a curious affair

A result of years spent going nowhere

I am lost

 

I’ve heard it said that pleading for help is wise

But that sort of equation does not suffice

I won’t drop on bended knees

That is abhorrent to me

So instead, I struggle through the storms that arrive

Through the winter adventures of a nostalgic sleigh ride

Though my vantage point is a narrow slot

In between snow drifts on my trailer-park lot

I am lost

 

Some say that it would be better to retreat

Like a vacationer, venturing toward a condominium suite

But that won’t get it

Such a plan does not fit in my budget

I’ll be here throughout every torrent and tempest

Stuck in my shelter, hoping to rest

On a disability groove

No need for my socks and shoes

I am lost

 

Phone service fails when the power is cut

The reception in my commune, roasted like a chestnut

It makes me ponder that the age has expired

And I have survived, due to unplugged wires

A benefit of my talent for going in the wrong direction

Better suited to avoiding affection

In an environment of solitary folk

A tribe of miscreants, who won’t take the yoke

I am lost

 

Acting up, and being marked as such

Out of hope, and verbally out of touch

I will watch the weather forecasts and plan ahead

Despite the fact that at night, in my bed

I toss and turn, over that impending broadside

Shown on a silver screen, tall and wide

My breath is hot, and the window is cold

An undercover agent, on patrol

I am lost

 

Running loose, in the dreary dreamscape

A superhero without their leotard and cape

Counting the squares on my calendar page

Until the accident of an open cage

From Mother Nature at her best

I cling lovingly to her maternal breast

Hobbled and handicapped, a lame mule in its stall

This is my prediction for enduring it all

I am lost

 

A nod and wink, as the candle glows

With a gentle projection of murkiness and shadows

Ghosts peer from behind a door left ajar

And in my groggy state, I wonder who they are

Perhaps an old benefactor, come to call

Or merely a length of twine, hanging on the wall

This familiar ritual will persist through the freeze

As I dine on cold cuts, and processed cheese

I am lost

 

With a cracker as my treat for making these sacrifices

Eliminating indulgences and impure vices

A pat on the shoulder for staying strong in the moment

A suspended sentence for time already spent

This is the walk I pursue, when topography turns white

With a glaze on the glass that obstructs my oversight

Scrolling through options on the flatscreen

Thumbing through pages of a back-issue magazine

I am lost

 

Until that change, when the melting is merciful

And I emerge, like a hermit, looking pitiful

Deeply chuffing the first aroma of awakening

The rise of a rosebud, the spawn of a seedling

I will wait, at the top of my stairs

Oddly out-of-place, with no cause to go anywhere

This is the yield of my temperance and fortitude

To discover I am no better, than when born of the brood

I am lost

 

I’ve never connected with the cares and concerns

Never understood the appeal of legal terms

And that disposition has not improved

The graying of hairs has left me sadly unmoved

But at the point of this fortunate brag

I’ll be grateful to gather my rambling rags

The solar orb shines, safely from a distance

And that example will inspire, my own persistence

Though I am lost

 

Still, so lost

 

 

“Somebody Said”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

Somebody said

That there’s wisdom at the bottom of a garbage can

A terse timeline, composed from a vend-o-mat

A compost of chemicals with proteins and fat

And biography of Jack Spratt

Yes, I have heard

That the age of redemption is an also-ran

Like a semi-rig rolling down the highway route

A Diamond Jim Daddy in a pinstripe zoot suit

That was quite a hoot!

 

Somebody said

That that iced coffee is better at a diner counter

With friends arranged in a diamond square

Properly seated in matching chairs

And I did not care

Yes, I have heard

That there’s a trick-or-treat party, over yonder

No matter what time of year is injected

It’s a matter of the calendar being neglected

And a ski-mask on my head

 

Somebody said

That the sum of wisdom is an ad blurb for cigarettes

A tagline used in a different culture

When profiteers circled like hungry vultures

But I wasn’t sure

Yes, I have heard

That Jesus came back, on the screen of a TV set

And nobody noticed his presence in the room

Which dampened the day in shades of gloom

A dustpan without a broom

 

Somebody said

That anyone reading books is empty inside

But I had a different take on that view

Had no interest in being stuck with glue

It’s a handoff from me to you

Yes, I have heard

That a wolf can leap a fence, both tall and wide

Even when pursued by those on the hunt

And a party of patriots, bearing the brunt

Of smoking a Cuban blunt

 

Somebody said

That there’s enough frustration for all mankind

To power a factory of machines at work

Making shredded wheat from weeds and dirt

A bandage to cover the hurt

Yes, I have heard

That a bird in flight has a lot on its mind

Soaring over the tenement slums

Like an immigrant crew, picking pears and plums

And a protester beating her drum

 

Somebody said

That the touch of a hand when the night is cold

May surprise those who think that a slap is correct

A five-finger exercise, strong and direct

A lawyer rising to object

Yes, I have heard

That the mentally ill have a reason to scold

Those of us who can’t think outside the lines

We get lost when the gears begin to grind

And the clock quits telling time

 

Somebody said

That a gown of fine fabric cannot eviscerate

The contours of a glutton, flaccid and flabby

Sitting on a barstool next to Dear Abby

It’s a strange place to be

Yes, I have heard

That a cannonball might split boilerplate

With the fearless force of a bullet, shot

A stone skipping across the parking lot

Johnny-on-the-spot

 

Somebody said

That every time there’s a change on the wind

It’s a certainty, that rumors will resound

Like pooches pawing to escape from the pound

At the disco, getting down

Yes, I have heard

That we eventually travel back to where we begin

In an arc that curls into a shape, familiar

An effect that is oddly old and peculiar

It causes quite a stir

 

Somebody said

That coming so far indicates a weakness

A need to fill the space in an empty jar

With a residue of herbal tea, imported from afar

It’s an overdue chance to spar

Yes, I have heard

That indulging in laughter is a sign of excess

A ritual rooted in self-appreciation

From the era when rubes ruled this continental nation

And crows exclaimed with elation

 

Somebody said

That the last words of a poet ring true

When on the bed where their breath will fail

A sharp flick of the dragon’s tail

Ther’s a hole at the bottom of this pail

Yes, I have heard

That an eagle’s talon might hold a shrew

Carried aloft, while spectators gawk

After a serenade by New Kids on the Block

And a shopkeeper taking stock

 

Somebody said

That there’s wisdom at the bottom of a garbage can

But it wasn’t me, Lord

It wasn’t me...

 

“Home”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

Too far from the edge of a celestial divide

Distant enough that I can’t turn the tide

And I’m ready to go home

I see the reflected face, clearly verklempt

But there’s a flaw in that imagery, likely to tempt

And I’m ready to go home

I’ve been here for long enough

Pretending to be made of sterner stuff

And all the while knowing that they’ve called my bluff

I’m Ready to go home

 

Too far from seeking what I forgot to begin

With a knuckle strike, upon my throat and chin

And I’m ready to go home

A vain vassal, looking for the afterlife

Because I’ve already given up my son and my wife

And I’m ready to go home

I’ve been here for a thousand days

Prancing around the perimeter of a purple haze

Like a loafer, unlucky enough to cause a market craze

I’m ready to go home

 

On the precipice of a lifetime, fully surrendered

Like a pocket full of coins, legally tendered

And I’m ready to go home

Nobody ever read my words, and loudly cheered

It’s a certainty that I’m sadly stuck in second gear

And I’m ready to go home

My flesh is tingling with a bold burn of guilt

On a foundation that feeble failings built

With an unloaded pistol, holstered at the hilt

I’m ready to go home

 

I come to find myself, still waiting for the checkered flag

Drinking rotgut wine from the cover of a shopping bag

And I’m ready to go home

The comfort voiced by a brother who I never knew

Standing tall on his elevator shoes

And I’m ready to go home

I asked a question, which had to be posed

About gambling for a dirty beggar’s street clothes

And what it got me then, was a punch in the nose

I’m ready to go home

 

Fables told by a fop, duded up for a blind date

What a trick to employ, like the clanging of a garden gate

And I’m ready to go home

In the library vestibule, waiting for my lost card

So I can review volumes, by the British bard

And I’m ready to go home

That prick of needles still pokes at my skin

As a reminder of patience, wearing thin

When all I can do is roll my eyes and grin

I’m ready to go home

 

The queen is dead, yes, I heard the report

After responding rapidly, with a humble retort

And I’m ready to go home

She was an old breed, no longer fit to rule

Though able to endure calamities, till her kettle was cool

And I’m ready to go home

Anyone paying attention must have known the decree

The last thing she uttered, was a curse not taken lightly

A plea to be spared by the blessed almighty

I’m ready to go home

 

Once the tale is told, I won’t bother with repetition

I am assured of inheriting a better disposition

And I’m ready to go home

All it took was a bull ride, lasso in hand

With the cadence of an alley run, pumped up by a brass band

And I’m ready to go home

I’d like to think that somehow what I said was right

But now that sunset has arrived, in the dark of night

I find no reason for a foolhardy fistfight

I’m ready to go home

 

The final hour will pass unlamented

Until a new world order is cerebrally cemented

And I’m ready to go home

The rule of law used to mean more than gold

But now it’s an indication of scholars having grown old

And I’m ready to go home

That destination is the one I will choose

When I got nothing left, yes nothing to lose

Except for a filled flask of bonded booze

I’m ready to go home

Trailer Park Vignettes: “A Butterfly Farewell”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had lived long enough in the rural squalor of Evergreen Estates that his ability to perceive joy and sorrow on the level of a typical human being had been compromised. After so many years of wallowing in an environment of poverty, alienation, social decline, and chaotic relationships, he had been transformed into a lifeless lump of clay. Literally unable to experience common emotions that were once part of his personal makeup. He had not laughed loudly, or been moved to shed tears, in longer than he could remember. Each day was simply a slow crawl from his dirty, disintegrating mattress, into the kitchen, his back bedroom, and finally, the front porch. He was nearly always drunk by the afternoon. That fog of bourbon was his salvation. It formed a barrier between his conscious mind, and the junkyard atmosphere that surrounded his plain, singlewide abode.

 

Yet on a Tuesday, as news of Dolly Parton having passed circulated throughout the civilized world, he felt a drip of sadness ebb from his reddened eyes.

 

The old recluse had never been one to fixate on celebrities or cultural icons. He paid no attention to awards shows, star-studded events, or over-hyped promotional appearances. But the name of that Tennessee figure resonated with unique importance, in his thoughts. As someone also born of an Appalachian bloodline, he felt connected with the noted recording artist and entrepreneur. She had been authentic in a way now seemingly lost as part of the American experience. And her ability to transcend boundaries of all sorts, lines of color, creed, gender, social standing, and politics, was a quality he adored and respected.

 

With a wash of Jack Daniel’s dampening his gray beard, the contrarian hermit whispered a prayer for her transcendent spirit, and family members that survived.

 

“She is with you now, Lord. Take care of her in eternity. And let her sing to all the angels in heaven...”

 

On a wall near the entrance to his bedroom, a framed poster still hung in tribute to the legendary performer. One that had been autographed during a visit to Pigeon Forge. It was a relic of yonder days when the alcoholic loner had been married, busy as a parent, and active in pursuing career goals. All things that were mystical from a modern perspective. He could barely remember the embrace of his wife, or her gentle kisses in the morning and at night. The regular routine they had enjoyed vanished with the inevitable passage of time, along with a descent into petty disputes and consternation.

 

He could still recall how she had pleaded for a reset in their relationship, once the son they had raised was safe and on his own.

 

“Let’s get away from all of this! Dump our responsibilities, live for ourselves, and forget about working to make other people rich. Our love is worth more than money! More than silver and gold, and any currency we can spend. I believe in God, and I believe in us! What do you believe, Link? Open your heart and tell me the truth!”

 

He had gambled on promotions and advancement as his fuel to go forward. That choice would eventually seal his fate with company reorganizations, buyouts, and new ownership. In the aftermath, he found himself bankrupt, alone, and abandoned. Marked for what he had done with good intentions and bad judgment.

 

Still, the music of his mountain queen retained its healing power, and vitality.

 

While sipping whiskey amid a buzzing of seasonal insects, and the roar of rusty vehicles on parade down his street, he revisited familiar lyrics that were loose in his head. Words written with the tenderness of someone who came of age in the midst of natural beauty, and the humble traditions of a simpler age.

 

“Today as I was walking

In the fields just down the way

I sat down on a fallen log

To pass the time away

And as I looked around me

The more that I did look

the more I realize that I am viewing

God’s coloring book

 

I saw a golden ray of sunlight

A silver drop of dew

A soft, white floating cloud

Sailing across the sky ‘a blue

A yellow dandelion

Pretty evergreen

And some red and orange flowers

Growing wild along the stream

And the more I look around me

And the more that I do look

The more I realize that I am viewing

God’s coloring book...”

 

Contact with anyone from his previous adventures was rare. In a sense, he willfully avoided confronting those memories, in favor of being negated and erased as a person. It was a safer strategy than meeting those truths, face-to-face. Less challenging than gazing into a mirror of introspection and self-analysis.

 

He received little comfort from neighbors, friends, or relatives, after crashing at the trailer enclave in northeastern Ohio. But the hillbilly songstress who had inspired so many with her own journey still touched his spirit with grace. That example of pure spirituality, a oneness with Mother Earth and all of her children, continued to endure. It gave him a feeling of hope when there was no other cause to celebrate still being alive. Even upon hearing that her own walk of faith had finally been completed, while in the flesh.

 

That gift of music and wisdom had been enough to carry him forward.

 

Lincoln fell silent, as the sunset drew near. Around the isolated park, signs of decay were evident, nearly everywhere. Gravel strewn over the cracked pavement. Weeds popping out of crevices in between slabs of concrete. Bins of trash that were neglected and full. Broken windows mended with duct tape, porches built from pallet wood, yards teeming with dog waste and rubbish.

 

Abandoned pickup trucks and cars, in driveways along the avenue.

 

But as he slid deeper into a state of inebriation, the shaggy bum listened to a livestream of classic tunes on his cell phone. Selected tracks being played in tribute, for the one who had finally gone home to her creator, in the cosmos.

 

The aging rebel felt hollow inside, with his butterfly heroine having departed. And yet, bolstered by a sense that she would never actually be gone. Because of what she bestowed with the magic of her birth, and rise to prominence. A voyage that took her around the globe, and back home again. All of us were able to bear witness to that miracle as it happened.

 

He repeated the prayer offered before. But this time, in a more serious tone of reverence.

 

“She is with you now, Lord. Take care of her in eternity. And let her sing to all the other angels in heaven...”