tied through my ears

When I swung my legs off the bed and touched my feet to the floor this morning, there I was with 41 years since my last drink of alcohol and the last use of any of those drugs.

Writing my Morning Pages, all kinds of stops along the way – even before April 15, 1983, like when I was 13 riding the three-speed a thousand miles an hour down Lincoln Hill back in Wareham, Massachusetts, and surely the zig-zaggy pattern of this life since – dropped by to say, “Hey.”

Surprisingly, aches and pains and not enough air in the tires, I find myself younger than all that now.