Simple things

I sit on the plane, alive and aware, as the Parkinson’s courses through it’s cycles of mistrust, ceding disdain’s focused calm to the shadow game that surrounds.

No longer able to reliably drive, I took the three hour shuttle to Seatac Sunday afternoon, much as the rest of my life, consigned through unearned promotion the role of watcher, my sole interaction of purpose being writing to you in this connection of grace.

Unable—so far—to vanquish the fear stemming from attachment to this body...