Michael Smith

The Celadon Tomb

It had been a year of unstable realizations – or perhaps more apt, a year of realizing instability. Everything that had seemed settled suddenly was not. Four moves inside of a calendar year, family health drama – the mental kind, which had been underwritten for years with shallow and misguided “solutions” that had ultimately compounded further the fractures in need of repair. Then there was the breakup. The longest, and arguably the most successful relationship he had ever managed, however, boundaries had never been a strong suit, especially, when in love. The third move to the shabby sublet on the west side of town proved to be the final straw, and whatever was left between them disintegrated – this rented house, was not a home. Finally, as the summer wore on and the necessity to move a fourth time forced itself into the astral assortment, he was dismissed from his job, just as the ink was drying on the latest lease agreement.