The Middle Ground


BeckoningLike a big brother with his struggling younger sibling pinned to the ground, a stream of spit dangling precariously over defiant eyes, mercy only comes with surrender.

The day’s storm has become our big brother. It’s been a day of a thousand years and we’ve not seen the sun since 1971. Wind and water stinging our defiant eyes, we struggle against the weather seeking mercy through strength and wit, finding the sheltered cove, the north facing coast, any anomaly of geography offering respite from the ragged mess that holds our spirits down. We seek this, but we do not find it.  We find only defeat.  Retreat.  Holed up in the car, heater blasting, foodless, weary and wet.

Nothing left to do but surrender. Crack a joke, and the very last beer, and drink to what has been and what will be again.  Stand on the roof of the car and howl at the wind, chasing the last sip of beer with a mouthful of smiling rain. Say uncle, and watch defeat become victory, watch the scattered become clean, watch the cold darkness be pierced by the merciful beckoning light.


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