The call is in my blood. The fight is not.
Too many, maybe all, have succumbed to the call and nary I saw a war wavered. The call. It haunts me.
It is the dread of being forty-eight years old if your father passed away at forty-nine. You prepare and stand guard. Hopeful yet haunted.
I awaken at the three am hour daily, my stomach feeling as if I am coming out of plank position. Preparing. For something. A nervousness felt before heading on stage to face a crowd. A stance prepared before heading into battle.
I turn on my lamp. There is no crowd. A bamboo plants stares at me. She whispers, “Be always ready”.
I stare at my bare walls. Minimalized. There is no thing to distract me or lead me to believe this is home, except the dream catcher above my bed. There is a home in…
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