I could have been something, back in the day. Now I’m retired.
Odd jobs. Handyman.
Not quite what our forefathers envisioned when they sat around that old nicked table forming plans for our vast country—all that uncharted land, all those unexplored shadows, those oceans wrapping the country in gentle waves.
I wanted to be something grand, but somewhere along the line I went south instead of north, and then jogged west instead of east and wound up looking at my own reflection in the Pacific. And that’s where I found the bottom of my soul. There along the ocean’s edge. There, I pressed my hand to my heart and vowed that if I had made different choices, I would have had something to offer. But as it was, all I had was myself: my skin and bones and organs and blood and what scattered buckshot thoughts I managed to keep in my skull. Not enough.
Not enough? Isn’t that what God gave you?
A gift, all right.
A gift worth preserving.