As if

My hands look different. My veins are more pronounced, my skin appears thinner, and cross-hatching is visible. I have also noticed fine lines developing under my eyes and that my face shape seems to be changing, rounding a bit, though I've lost some weight in the last few months. I am going to die one day.

When I was in late elementary and early middle school, I was so certain of my purpose, I was going to be a fantastic story-teller. I had had some success as a spinner of tales. Our first house growing up was about seven miles outside of town and the bus service had to cover children that lived as far outside of town as fifteen miles. Depending on the year, we were picked-up toward the beginning of the route or toward the end. The wholesome children on our route were exposed to the trailer park kids - hoodlums who had been to roadside taverns, ate tv dinners on weeknights, and had witnessed violence. They weren't even the scariest kids on the bus. The toughest, meanest kids on the bus were two brothers and a sister who lived above a bar off Highway 51 called Rose's Cantina, a favorite bar of the motorcyclists, possibly Hell's Angels, who rode through town every year. It was legendary in our town because someone had been murdered at the bar.

The oldest brother had bloodshot eyes and we'd call him Satan's spawn behind his back. The middle son had big blue eyes and a mean right hook. Their little sister was ruddy colored and foul-mouthed. They were all foul-mouthed and I was terrified of them. Everyone was terrified of them because Satan's spawn was rumored to keep a knife inside his jacket and the middle son - messenger boy - hit someone almost every day. Messenger boy and I struck up a deal of sorts. The bus was full and the only free spot was next to him, my older brother was fortunately riding the bus (the only time all year) and demanded that Messenger boy move over and let me in.

"You gonna make me?" Messenger boy looked like a lightweight ready to strike.

"I will, if I have to," my brother replied, standing fully 6'2", his hands in fists. The back of the bus was silent, breathless.

Messenger boy wasn't going to mess with a star jock and he moved aside and let me sit on the edge. It was a glorious day on the bus for me. My big brother had saved the day! The next day, I found a seat but it wasn't too far from Messenger boy. I kept my head down but he saw me. He asked me to come sit with him. I did. And over the rest of the school year, we would talk and I would tell him stories that went on for weeks. It was coolest to sit in the very back of the bus, furthest away from the driver. Satan's spawn sat in one of those seats, but when we stopped at Rose's Cantina, Messenger boy made it clear to everyone that if I wanted to sit there, it was my seat. Later that year, there was a fire that burned Rose's Cantina to the ground and I never saw those kids again. I tried the same tactic with two other older boys who lived in Eggleston's Woods, a neighborhood where everyone had an in-ground pool, but they weren't going to get me the back seat, they could only offer me their seats.

I am experiencing a growing urgency to live my life as if I have a clear purpose, which I do not. There are only immediate objectives: go to work for pay; take care of your dog; be good to those around you. When there are visible reminders that life is short, you respond. My life has not changed, I still have to struggle to get to the gym and dread work most days, but there is a stir within.