The wanted poster, the constantly hunting the bad guys, is wearing on me. Through swinging tavern doors, I’m forever holding posters to large-handled ale drinkers. And however real I believe the madman to be, was he ever real blows in the shadows, shaking me to the core.
But what if this pushing, the expectations of it all, could change? Allowing my wide-brimmed hat to collect dust on the coat rack next to a consumed three-logged fire, muddy boots by the front door with my sockless feet propped on a stool.
I take things very seriously. Like my role as a counselor. I put on my sheriff badge, mosey bowlegged into the office, set the highest standards and moral codes, and shoot down wrongs with rights before holstering my smoking gun. But what if I’ve lost myself in it all, somewhere in the character’s persona? In the flowy skirts, hoop earrings, and leaning in with a head nod, what if I don’t know where the counselor begins and I end?
What a rebellious act, to even think about not caring. I’ve made a brand, a business out of it. Who would I be, if my sleeve didn’t constantly have snotty care slung all over it?
Not unlike rental deposits that upon exit the landlord gives back, I’m contemplating taking back my cares. And then after I’ve done that, I’d take a broom to my emptied, dusty, and cobwebbed vault, turning on the light, and getting to work.
I’d start with a fresh coat of paint while listening to something on my headphones. A podcast about gardening. Or a murder mystery perhaps. I’d put up shelves I’ve made after watching countless YouTube videos. I’d ready them for a future moment when I discover the perfect peacock trinket or plug-in mushroom mosaic. I’d mourn the care I once gave, but I’d also be grateful for cutting out holes for windows, and opening a slider for cool air to spill in. How I love fresh air.
I do wish you well. And I’ll visit when I can. But if I don’t, it’s not a you thing. I just can’t hunt one man anymore.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 