One Thousand Gratitudes, Part XV: 650-626

I wish it were easier to tie up categories without post overlap, but what're'ya' gonna do?

Things -- it would seem -- got a touch intimate in this installment, and I hope that when that happens my coveted army of three readers doesn't get squeamish or offended. I'm trying to keep things real both in here and anytime I write. That's always been the intention and until I learn otherwise it always will be.

After I posted the last installment, my wife asked me if I thought this series had changed me.

I think the answer is "yes," but I think it's also a work in progress. It's easy to be in one mindset, then slip into another.

Rest assured, though, I'm trying to view the world as a thankful dude.

There's a lot of awesome out there.

And all of you are certainly part of it.

Thanks for reading.

Celebrity: Redux

Editor's Note: This genesis of this piece was originally shared via hard copy and e-mail, and was written on my old computer. I found my copy of it in the basement and decided that it was -- albeit lauded at the time by my loving family -- a huge clunker. I couldn't stand it. So I sat down to retool it and now -- just shy of 15,000 words later -- it's done. I'm happy I gave it the energy it deserved, but mostly I'm happy to put it away for good. Enjoy.

Two days shy of the six-month anniversary of my father’s passing I opened a blank Microsoft Word document in the spare bedroom of Matt Graunke’s house and sat there. My computer screen was like a crystal ball that portrayed foggy images of the recent past. A strange mixture of wet fear and damp curiosity rushed from the front of my brain and down, tickling my inner-most nose, scratching my throat with its moisture. As it ran through my upper torso my mind became aware of a frigid force field of stoicism that shielded my wounded heart.

Those first stages of mending had set in but it remained unclear when. It was evident it had been several weeks as the charge of imaginary liquid didn’t antagonize the injury; it didn’t pop open again or begin to weep. Instead some secondary or tertiary stage of definition had set in, acting as protective layers. Cells labored to construct outer shell upon outer shell, checking in on that primary cut with some sporadic measure. Those waters rushed past, though, like a herd of carnivores not noticing their hiding prey in the thick of the forest, a few mere oaks off the path.