I've got to admit, it's getting better.

A parable, unsure of the author, but it goes like this:

An old, muddleheaded cowhand frequented a poker game at the local saloon. Every week he came, and every week he was cheated out of every hand. They were stacking the deck, buying him out, hiding cards in their sleeves, running the gamut of low-down gamblers tricks. They worked every time on the poor old cowhand. Everybody in town knew he was a pushover, and didn't have much in the way of smarts. So year in and year out, he lost all his money every week to whoever decided it was worth their time to cheat him out of it.

Finally, one day, old rickety Rita, the saloon owner's mother, pulled the man aside.

"Now listen here boy," she crowed, "I think it's high time you stopped playing cards with these fellas!"

He doffed his hat, and looked at her with his big rubbery eyes and a calf-like grin. "Now what makes you think I'm inclined to do that Rita?"

Rita screwed up her wrinkly old face and said to him softly, "These boys aint never played you a fair hand in all this time, and they's cheatin you outta all your money."

The old cowhand's smile widened. "Now beg your pardon miss Rita, now I may be dumb, but I aint no fool. I knowed they been cheatin me for a long time. Even an idiot will win a hand every now and then. It's all in the numbers."

Rita's eyes widened. "If you know theys been cheatin you, why do you keep playing? There aint no sense in that!"

The smile left the man's face, and he looked at her as serious as he could manage. "Well to tell the truth miss Rita, there aint no sense in it, but I gotta keep on playing. It's the only game in town." And with that, he put his hat back on his head, returned to the table, and when he went home that night, he went home as penniless as usual.

~fin

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\.../\

This part has become difficult for me. I'm still scattered, but the wind is blowing so hard in the other direction.

Let me enunciate clearly on this fact: This Is A Good Thing.

~/~

I clamber down the staircase, no light shines out from the cracks of the trapdoor as I close it over my head. My oil lamp stays dim, I've walked these stairs so many times that I could walk them backwards, blind-folded, and dizzy. Halfway down, I stop for a second to wonder if the lamp has any fuel left. I haven't made this trip in a while, and the events of late have been such a headlong rush that I haven't really been making way for preparations.

[flash]

We're sitting in the back seat, music blaring, alcohol coursing through our veins: but we're going, not leaving. The topic at hand escapes my memory, but not the sentiment. A mall moment of despair, wrapped in hopefulness. I feel her tear land on the back of my hand, but when I touch her cheek to wipe the trail away, it's dry. Such a fleeting sadness.

[return]

I pull the hood off of the lamp, and crank the wick up enough to shed some light as I reach the bottom step. It's burning enough to dispel my earlier fears that it was empty. I have more than enough for the few minutes I'll be down here. One of the benefits of locking this place away is that it stays organized, if dusty.

Right where I left it: Sterling silver, inlaid with intricate cherrywood carvings. I pop the clasp and the hinges move without a sound; for something that has done me so much harm in my life, this is still worth keeping, and keeping well.

The most dangerous weapon, the most useful tool, The Dagger With A Four Letter Name.

[flash]

It's empassioned, if poorly timed. The thought was in my head, amplified by the actions, the surroundings. The word whirlwind crosses my mind, not for the first time that day, or that week, for what it's worth. The moment the words leave her lips, it's a simultaneous exhileration of spirit and fear for my life. Did she know? Does she know? I know it's wrong, I know it is, we both do. But knowing it's wrong doesn't make it untrue. Maybe neither of us know. But I'm patient enough to find out.

[return]

It looks so simple, in its blue velvet wrapping. Hilt, guard, simple scabbard over polished steel. The soft metal whispers when I remove its covering, as if to tell me a secret. Turning the blade over a few times in my hand, I clean off a few brown-red specks. Blood, and my own. Damn this blade.

My hands stop as I go to return it to its case. I don't know why I came down here. This is a stupid idea. This is foolhearty and headstrong. I need to put it back and walk away.

Put it away, and fast.

I don't even realize that I've fastened it to my belt until it bangs the side of the trapdoor on my way out.

I guess I'll keep it out for now. You never know when you'll need it.

\/...\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

This is only the beginning. I keep fearing the other shoe is going to drop, but that fear is lessening every day.

I'm starting to feel like karma is cashing all my checks, and starting to give me some dividends. Optimism, yes, but cautious, ever so cautious.

Let me enunciate this VERY clearly: I think I'm starting to be happy.