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Twenty February 5, 2014

Posted by The Typist in 365, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Twenty was yesterday. So much happened yesterday and the day before that yesterday apparently didn’t happen. The two days were part lifeboat drill, part floating in the water watching your link to the land list and vanish, part obligations that couldn’t be missed. A 365 post did not make it into the lifeboats. The void here arose from the void in my chest, the passing feeling that love had gone away, a palpable hollowness in the chest as if something had deflated. Not a pain but the absence of one where you are sure it should be. Unspoken resentments are a poison to the soul, a toxin not processed by the liver but by honesty, by speaking your truth even when you know it will hurt everyone. In the end it is no more than the old-fashioned pulling of a rotten tooth. Best to get a good grip, yank hard, and get the damned thing out.

The day ended well, is all I can say: a belated birthday dinner at Elizabeth’s for my daughter along with my son. She and I had three cocktails each, Sazeracs for me and Sidecars for her, and no one asked for an ID when my son ordered a Maker’s Mark after dinner. A wonderful meal and a long wandering conversation with two charming adult companions. Wonderful grown children are a consolation against everything else.

The emotional dental appointment, the diagnosis having been made, will have to wait until I reach the end of the chase light calliope fun house of madness that is this week. I hope to leave with a happy, gap-toothed smile.

Ed.’s Note: There will not be a 365 post on Odd Words Thursdays. Unless I decide to write one.



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