it was morning; i was mourning

it was morning; i was mourning.

my pager went off. i reached into my pocket to see who it was. my mother was paging me. that never happened. i was riding my bicycle up park avenue. middle of winter. it was a bright cold. sharp. almost painful. bitter wind blew through the broken zipper on my jacket. reminding me that i was broke; or broken?

i stopped at the next payphone and phoned home. my mother answered. crying. her mother was sick. bad sick. not getting better sick. my grandmother. a light of love, creativity and passion. for us all. was dying.

i cried too. we talked. barely. then hung up.

i kept on riding. until i was numb.

i felt a feeling that i'd left life and my anger and my sorrow behind. put it all in that dark lonesome room.... at the end of the road.... at the bottom of the hill.... in the far corner of my heartache.

i swore i would never go there again; to that room.

no one could make me; or could they?

i was sitting in my vw bus. at the beach. had just finished surfing. my cellphone rang. it was my parents. i picked up. my father was sick. bad sick. not getting better sick. my hero. my friend. my counsel. a beacon to us all. was dying.

we talked. for a long time. and cried.

once again. that room came calling. i couldn't resist; powerless was i to it.

that was then. this is now. i have been walking for days; or is it years? the sand feels course on my feet. i have no shoes. or answers. both given away along the way. no longer mine.

is anything ever really mine; even this lifetime?

it was morning; i was mourning.