Prayers to Broken Stone

I love that phrase, prayers to broken stone. It's from a T.S. Eliot poem The Hollow Men. I wish I'd written it.

I'm suited up, changing the station from The Women in Trouble! network to The Talking Heads channel. I'm resigned to the workout. I hear the door clack open and in strolls IronMan, he takes one look at me and says, "You ready to go?"

He's wearing street clothes and I smile ruefully saying, "Don't yank my chain on this, after yesterday I could probably use some misbehaving." He's not kidding, reading something in my eyes or posture.

I dress for work and we head to Bob Evans.

Of course it's closed.

We head to McDonalds.

Of course it's closed.

But its drive-through is open. We order something and head back to the gym all the while I'm filling him in on yesterday's events. We plop down on some chairs in the lounge (for lack of a better word) and talk. That's about all I want to say on the matter (except Thanks IronMan!), it's work, it's bad and getting worse.

Yesterday's surprise cut deep.

There will be no more wishing, building sandcastles or hoping things get better. We're in the end game now, the short strokes. Everything is personal now.

Be well.