Personal Narrative

I had moved from my father’s house at an early age to begin my own family with big ambitions and even bigger dreams. At the time, I had every intention of slaying dragons and returning as the conquering hero with ticker tape parade and cheering fans. What I did not know at that time was how much of an everyday adversary the world could be and how many temptations and poor choices would be available on almost a daily basis. Looking back I now understand what my father had tried to tell me with a simple universal truth, “Water takes the shape of its container.” On the flight home, I had stared out the small rectangle window into the seemingly endless blue sky punctuated by sparse cotton sculptures which changed with the wisps of the wind

I tried to quell the ever expanding mental image of what a black light would reveal if ever used to search the very space I now occupied and failed, causing me to swear off any more binge watching of CSI on Netflix. Simultaneously, my upper lip twitched uncontrollably on the left side, and my nose danced in a rapid samba of left to right nostril flairs similar to a bunny exploring a new found carrot. Nevertheless the mystery remained thankfully unsolved, and I had to settle for a tentative identification of an object with a scent somewhere between the disinfectant used in filling station bathrooms, and that particular Patchouli incense sold only by that little shop on Royal Street in New

The last house painting my Father had drawn me into caused my arm muscles to burn with the heat of a thousand suns, and my shoulders to burn with the lack of applied sun block. I had spent a very painful week after wincing anytime I lifted something heavier than a cup of coffee and taking a shower to wash my hair seemed to require more effort than climbing Everest. Yet standing there looking, I began my plan and began to wonder if I should try a new color, nothing overly bold, just perhaps anything but white with blue