I smoked a cigar tonight.
I watched the smoke billow from my lips into light rays of a setting sun.
Shadows danced on the bare walls of my muted yellow room...my home for 959 days now...

I watched the orange light of the sun dance in my glass of merlot.
I sipped slowly, swallowing the pain of... well... there's no need to waltz with depression...so I savored my balm of Gilead.

My ear turned to the giggling of children outside my basement window.  My neighbor's kids 4, 6 and 8, danced with delight in the warmth of the spring twilight.

I'm almost 37.

I once had dreams of love. Dreams of family. Dreams of fame. Dreams of travel into foreign lands touching the faces of tribal men and women... dreams of riding a train through sunflower fields in Italy.

Those dreams have faded just like the ash from my cigar that now floats in this morning's coffee cup.

Hope.

Hope?

I don't know.

I have hope for heaven, and for hope of seeing God in all his glory.  But that's a day when I'll be dead.

My thoughts turn as I light another cigar...

The whisper of the wind blows into my window and tousles my hair.

"There's more...  "



michaelstille@gmail.com