Vague Discomfort

Rian should have been born a ghost.



Hovering about, here and there. Watching. Listening. FEELING.

Never confined to one haunting. Never confined to flesh and bone and blood. There is beauty in invisibility. And an uncommon clean.



Here, I am invisible. And self absorbed. I cannot see you, and so you do not exist.

Today the mailman fell down the steps. Fourteen steps. A bundle of mail.

Poor Jerry. He skinned his lovely knee and lost the mail into the red fronds of Rian's Japanese maple. I ran out to help, yes? Guilty, because the stairs were mine. And he was getting blood on his socks.

Rian crouched to gather missives from the soil and Jerry, dark features screwed up in embarassment or pain, mopped his knee with the sleeve of his jacket. He would not come in for judicious nursing. But Rian sent him away with his somewhat damp burden and a Spiderman Band-Aid.

Tonight Rian shall sit in an old fashioned hot tub with a grump of Bored Intellects and watch the evening freeze.