This morning I felt my mind return.
It has been gone for nearly thirty days.
I have missed it.
It has been lonely in my head without my mind:
like shooting free throws alone in an empty gym at midnight or
fishing along a muddy creek on a moonless spring night, your
sputtering lantern the only light source on the planet earth.
I have missed the games of catch I usually play with my mind.
It is fond of fastballs precisely targeted for nose and nuts, changeups
in fastball counts and tossing the severed head of a chicken when I
figured on horsehide.
I have missed my mind.
I wonder where it went, the exotic ports it called on, the
dazzling and dangerous adventures, the wine, the women and
the songs while I sat brooding on a brown leather sofa debating the
relative merits of another glass of mineral water versus a cup of coffee or
just sitting until the coroner’s office comes to claim me.
O meritorious choices!
I hate when my mind leaves me.
It leaves quite often, too often.
When my mind leaves me, I feel so ordinary.
I crave civil service examinations,
the resurrection of my stamp collecting hobby and
the purchase of a minivan in a drab, uninspiring color.
I want to imbibe gallons of flat, warm tap water and subsist on
prepared, microwaveable food heavy with fat and sodium.
I want to get ten hours of sleep a night, take two three hour
naps during the day and watch infomercials for my eight
waking hours.
I want to let the newspapers, grocery store flyers, mail and
collection notices pile on the front porch.
Ultimately though, I want my mind to return, end the boredom, salt in
color, gratuitous explosions, pungent cooking aromas and a dash of mania.
This morning, during my commute to work, I felt
my mind return. I’ll see everyone later.
Hold my place in line.
THE MIND ATTIC 