almost okay

Dear Lyzako,

It seems only hours since I departed Nob Hill and the comfort of your hospitality. In reality, days have passed, my friend, days that feel like a lifetime of toil and disrespect. My right hand will not clench fully into a fist, the fingers and palms swollen and stiff from constant work, my 'job' involving much more physical strength than I thought I could muster at my advancing age. I have several cuts and contusions, and there is pain in my left knee that causes me to limp. I survive, though. The tale is forthcoming, but in the meantime I wish to send out heartfelt thanks to you for providing respite from my cross-country travail, while at the same time begging forgiveness for what it is I now have to do to earn my daily bread.

As a child molding colored clay into tiny figures and manipulating them through fantastic scenarios involving both passion and madness, I pictured myself a sculptor or film director. But the passing years have put me on quite a different path.

As a child, I had no concept of fate.

Upon my arrival home, Detroit greeted me with skies the color of skim milk, temperatures in the fifties and drizzle. After a week of slaving and not sleeping, I fell out before the 'Simpsons' came on and slept a solid twelve hours. I can't remember the last time I was so long in bed, but I'm sure it involved vomiting and a fever.

Many dead relatives appeared in my dreams last night, including Grandma, Uncle Dub and Aunt Joy, all sitting around a large table smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, listening to Elvis on the stereo and laughing at each other's jokes. I didn't quite know what to make of it, but was grateful for seeing their smiling faces again, just as I remembered them, even if it was only in a dream. I must say it seemed very real, almost as though they were welcoming me to the party. I wonder if, in my exhausted state, I was so close to death that my spirit flirted with joining theirs in the hereafter.

I hope so.

Warm Regards As I Stumble Forward,
Marty Sherman