Maroon

I did enjoy the closeness. It had nothing to do with the proximity of my being to that beautiful specimen, but everything to do with the nearness of success. People say almost doesn't count. Well, almost does count. It did count.

Sunday, when it all happened, I didn't leap off of the Brooklyn Bridge. Instead, I got as close to the edge as possible. The middle of my soles clenched tight, my toes immobile, yearning for the last breath of grasp to the iron framework. My heels, the only contact to solid ground before a potentially fatal plunge. But this isn't a story about an attempted suicide. That would be sad. The bridge is a metaphor.

My eyes burned. My fingers charred. The coffee grind vanished. It was one of the longest days of my life. And I made it. I made it to the end. The clock struck 23:59 and I was almost there. It was almost suffice to let go and leap into bed. I was almost at that stage when I could take that pressed sheet to bed with me and say, "I made you." But at 0:00 it all ran out. The coffee. The ink. The sheet -- bleeding darkness. And still, within that smudge of near perfection, burden rested in a silent and clear haven.

I hung up the sheet, too empty to be my companion, near its brethren. This one, the youngest, but the smartest. It was the one that got the farthest in the life. The one I raised correctly. The one that I raised without the self-help books and tutorials. The one that I raised with mere experience. This was the one that I most cherished. Didn't love. But cherished.

For love, I needed a six letter word for "red."



The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.