Today is February 8, 2015. I am alive and well.

excerpt from my book, Mind Without a Home

A steady breeze of smoke carries Rose to a small table in front of the stage, a leaf carved into the top. Rose puts her cigarette out on its vein.

Rose was close enough to Paul to smell his sweet, an odd mixture of alcohol and mint. Paul winks and drums charm. Rose vibrates from his gaze. Later, they will make love in the alley, Rose’s small size thrown up against graffiti, her slender legs wrapped around Paul. Their baby, Frankie, Would be conceived here.

Paul had drummed with the best in his youth. His gentle spirit and large hands beat sweet cream into rhythm that buried itself into the souls of audiences. He was sought after and he sought the high  applause  gave him. When this high was not enough, he moved on to find laughter and contentment in a battle of whisky.

He told me that drunkenness was like having a million women gently stroke his face, tickle his face, love his face.

When he saw Rose, he wanted her. His mama said “to always leave the ones alone who cast spells; don’t let your heart leap on a first glance. This kind to woman will eat you up.” Paul thinks “What does mama know? She jumped in front of a bus two years ago”. Paul didn’t make this up. Mama’s as dead as the goose that came to Christmas.

(names have been changed)


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