I’m a creature you know, who craves a focus. That has always been my downfall I think. Without that sense of focus, I’m adrift at sea. I’ve struggled to find that ebb and flow within myself, and so I guess you could say my ineptness has staggered me wildly off course.
So when a couple days ago this random text came through my little android device…with the words…
Hey, What’s up
… my response Not much :-) who dis?
You mean who dat
Or dat…dat worx
…I was intrigued.
This mystery person and I have been texting back and forth every day since. No clue who it is. Don’t know even if man or woman. Don’t know how they know me, or how they got my number. Completely innocuous banter too…not one single sexual innuendo to be had at any point in this exchange.
And, I know I know, but do you know how refreshing it is? I’m making an assumption here though I guess, that my texting-pal is male. I could quite easily be wrong, but I suspect I’m not. Or, maybe it’s just me Romanticising again. So be it.
If nothing else, it did put a spring in my step. Something mysterious is always a fun focus. It is the desire to know, the quest to unlock a memory, and figure out who this mysterious person is that I find so engaging.
To date, this is what I know. I didn’t meet them at the bar near me. We met through mutual friends we had… emphasis confirmed as intentional. I know where approximately they live, and that they seem to know where I live. They apparently are not from Dodge, nor connected to anyone from there. That’s about it I guess. They have very eclectic musical tastes to be sure.
And yes, I am a little spooked, but, well, there has been no reason for me to become alarmed. Well, and I do LOVE a good mystery.
I’ve often thought that there was a certain rhythm to our lives. After sexting guy, experiencing a wonderfully mysterious, engaging interchange via texting is rather refreshing.
Oh, those ebbs and flows, ups and downs, times of change, preceding times of reflection, times of loss, perhaps followed by times of joy (if you’re lucky).
Though whether this is just random events I’ve perceived as having a connection, or maybe there is a design or an energy that, sentient or otherwise, plays a foundational role in the texture of our world, our day to day, who knows.
Subtly, though. More like a wee fleck of one unique colour, hidden within the tapestry of a highland plaid, hides this particular energy. Being so subtle as to hardly seem to affect the look, but without it, the whole design is duller, drearier, unfinished even.
I suppose, each of us is alittle unfinished without that wee fleck of colour to our lives. Perhaps it is that thing that draws us into the great dance. Drawing us towards the ebb and flow. Down that passageway, through the rapids, around the bends, the twists and turns, we find our way.
So these things were the floaters around my spirit yesterday, as I recall that last day Mom, that last day that dragged on, as we waited to be able to take you home.
We were waiting at the hospital for you to go for one last radiation treatment, so as to take down the swelling that had gathered around your neck – to make you more comfortable. Yesterday, as I walked past the empty spot where we together spent those agonizing hours, I now feel just a little more in charge of myself.
Back then, I remember how frustrating it was, standing there in that old hospital room waiting for an ambulance to drive us the handful of blocks to the NEW Vic’s Cancer Centre.
As I stood there, looking down at that river that ran past, I realized it too ran past the Homestead. And so, with all the fidgety worry I had had about you perishing in that place, I saw that the river could be your passageway. So I told you, if needful, to follow the river home. Such was my pain at the thought of you dying in that place, that maybe this gave me as much solace as you.
I don’t know exactly why Mom, but yesterday when I decided our ultimate destination would be Soho, I found that something had changed inside me. That rather soggy, foggy, slushy Sunday, nothing could stop this sense of well-being that had come over me.
I’ve decided it must have something to do with the.mystery.texter. You know, some days go by and I speak to no one but workmates and strangers. I get lonely sometimes for that everyday banter you share with a partner, a friend. That connection to something else outside the mundanity of my daily routine, well, it’s given me a little fleck of colour.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt:
“Re-springing Your Step.”