There’s a time when each of your parents picks you up, puts you down and never picks you up again. Now, I can recall many first and last milestones in my life. But even with the finality of this, I can’t remember the precise day or circumstances associated with my parents putting me down for the last time. I doubt they would have been able to either. As the youngest, my folks knew that picking me up in their arms would cease at some point like it did for my siblings. It's inevitable. As happens with all kids, we just got too big. Continuing with this gesture was unnecessary due to our independence or too taxing on our parents’ body.

I don’t think my mother or father conscientiously acknowledged that, “After this, I’m not picking up any of my kids ever again.” So, physically releasing us from their arms for the last time wasn’t a premeditated incident captured for prosperity because it was routine. Mundane actions end up blending together to form uneventful days which turn into weeks then months then quickly passing years. Children grow so fast; not everything is a watershed moment, worthy of recalling by either party involved. Without an anchoring occasion, such as a birthday, holiday or developmental achievement providing emotional attachment, generic details get lost.

I heard this “There’s a time…” statement following my mom’s funeral in 2015, almost nineteen years after my father’s unexpected death. It resonated with me since I was still in mourning. But then I started thinking about it from a different angle.

There are many pictures of my parents holding their kids and grandkids. We matured and became self-sufficient while Mom and Dad grew old and became frail. So, at a certain point, lifting any of us off the ground wasn’t an option. I realized, although not physically able to, our parents continually raised our spirits with their words of encouragement and hoisted us up by celebrating our triumphs.

Neither ever put any of us down when we failed. They did their best to ease the pain associated with our heartbreaks. They literally dusted us off and were a constant source of support as we endured the inevitable lows of life. Picking up a child is comforting, but temporary. A parent always being there is impactful and everlasting.

We had ample time to say goodbye to Mom. At the end, her mind and body were worn, but she always smiled when her family came to visit, even if she couldn’t recall our names. It was reassuring seeing her happy to see us. And now, even after all the years, my parent’s presence still lifts me, reminding me everything will be alright. I’m grateful that to this day, they’ve never let me down.

The question posed is, “Why don’t you escape the asylum” That’s the wrong question to ask. It should be, “Why don’t you want to escape the asylum?” This inquiry will result in a fuller, more honest response.

First, one person’s asylum is another person’s Club Med, minus the turndown service and all-you-can-eat buffet. As the sole proprietor who built this asylum, without a background in construction or a doctorate of psychiatry I might add, it’s of my own design. Since the beginning, I’ve overseen the broad spectrum of daily operations. Just me, no help from mid-level management or frontline support staff. I’m the judge, jury and intake coordinator.

Second, how can I escape when the doors I crafted and so lovingly installed are padlocked on the inside and outside. This ensures that those housed here, including me, cannot leave. Keeps us sequestered from society. And the industrial-grade bolt cutters stored in the maintenance shed are inferior to the titanium security bars covering the windows. That’s intentional. Those dwelling here should not mingle with the general population.

Third, the supposed crazy exhibited is my normal. Others may view this confinement as punishment, but it’s not. It’s what I know. Yes, escaping from here would “free” me from this institution, but where would I go then? I’d inevitably be captured and forced into a different place. There, I’d be stripped of my seniority and control. Or worse. And what about those left behind? What fate would befall them? Without proper leadership, anarchy assumes power. Infrastructure deteriorates. I don’t want to subject those I’ve forsaken to this uncertainty. We’ve been through too much together. It wouldn’t be fair or just.

Fourth, over time I’ve developed coping strategies for dealing with all who I’ve let into my asylum. It’s a symbiotic relationship. I prevent outside forces from entering which would corrupt the balance between the inner workings and those residing here. While what’s happening in the confines offers me perspective. Looking around is a constant reminder that it could be worse. Better the devil you know.

And most importantly, this is my sanctum. I want no part of the depravity performed by others on the outside. Granted, some folks can amaze me with their feats of kindness. But those moments are few and far between compared to the multitude of acts that gnaw at the sinew of society’s moral skeleton. The pointless inhumanity shocks me.

Leaving here means direct exposure to that, increasing the odds I’ll be victimized. I am confident my self-preservation skills would carry me through a zombie apocalypse unscathed. Less sure of my survival chances to withstand protracted exposure to the madness displayed by the public.

I’ve grown accustomed to the neurosis I’ve generated. I’m okay with it. If I’m introspective, I could even banish the troublesome aspects and learn from them. That’s a potential worth sticking around for. So, I won’t escape this domicile because living here is more rational to me than living in the supposed “sane” world.

In the end, he knew the lengthy legal fight that drained his finances and soul was worth the sacrifices, not only to reclaim his reputation but to get his kids back into a stable environment. When life pivoted and took him on a journey he never imagined he’d be forced to take, his priorities shifted. Things he once considered important fell by the wayside. His focus redirected.

After the allegations became public, he wasn’t surprised by his employer’s decision to let him go. Too much pressure from outside forces. Bad for business. This added fuel to his burning desire to prove all of them wrong. His comfortable life had been uprooted by the baseless accusations leveled against him. After reading her spurious reasons for divorcing him, printed on letterhead from a prominent law firm, he knew it would be a protracted battle. Spite is a cancerous motivator to make someone else’s life miserable. And she was hellbent on fulfilling the promise she made when he told her he’d leave if she didn’t get help.

He did not return the hate in kind because he knew this tact would aid in his healing. Despite her attempt to erase him from history, he was able to reconnect with his children. He rebuilt bonds that shouldn’t have been shattered in the first place, bonds that were severed by the negative propaganda spewed from her, her lawyers and faceless trolls on social media. He gained full custodial rights when her second 10-panel drug test came back 100% positive.

He turned resourceful once the shared credit cards and bank account were frozen. Always good with money, living on a budget wasn’t a foreign concept to him. Still, the idea of struggling to provide for his kids was frightening. He relied on the same approach he has used when facing past obstacles in his life – accepting that it’s a multi-level challenge to be met one step at a time while acknowledging even the smallest victory is a sign he’s moving forward.

Once the kids were on their way to school and the apartment tidied up, he spent the mornings pounding the pavement, taking any part-time job that would pay him, preferably in cash, and allow him to be finished before the kids got off the bus. His shoes were wearing out, but not at the same rate as his son’s. So, patching the hole in the bottom of the eldest’s shoe was on top of the list.

Tonight’s main entrée centered around the generic, discounted mac and cheese prepared from a box that was part of the few groceries his last ten dollars bought. He was tolerant of the off-putting taste. His kids were Kraft kids, so they just thought this was a special variation. Going to bed with small bellies full keeps the hunger pangs from dominating their dreams.

Sitting in the quiet at the kitchen table, he eyes the tiny cardboard box still smelling of dried pasta retrieved from the trashcan. He separates the glued seams and flattens it. With the correct orientation, he cuts out two full insoles and a half one that will cover the area beneath the toes. He’s confident, assuming the rain holds off, this temporary repair to his son’s left shoe will last until the next payday.

His sense of worth from this fix is invaluable. He knows the better days he had longed for years ago when this nightmare started are nearing. And like a Spring fog that lifts by late morning, blue skies will be prevalent in his and his kids’ lives soon.

For the umpteenth time, you want to come back,

whether in person, as a shadow, or a dream.

So, I will give you another opportunity.

For pleading your reason to reconcile,

knowing the outcome will be the same

due to old habits fueled by one-sided benefits.

For delivering “I’ll do better” promises

that have exceptions and excuses

which absolves you from fulfilling them.

For expressing words previously spoken.

Meaningless vocalizations without recourse

that should remain silent.

For executing gestures long overdue,

well past their expiration date.

But still hiding fresh agendas.

For when you’re done, I’ll only ask for a minute.

I’ll use all my 60 seconds for retribution

and your relegation to the shadows cast by my dreams.

For once I’ve finished clearing the air,

you won’t want to come back anymore.

You’ll understand I’m better off as you fade from my world.

PART 1 – The Prose

I don’t think love is longing for what’s lost. I believe love is generated from within. It radiates forth when you embrace who you are. Love magnifies your strengths and highlights what you have to offer. This is what attracts others to you. Love isn’t longing for what we’ve lost, it’s longing to share what we have.

Very few reach and maintain a state of wholeness because we are dynamic works in progress. Contentment isn’t an end all, it’s setting the stage for the next act. There’s always more to add. But you can’t constantly fill your heart, mind or soul without jettisoning (losing) something already occupying them. The goal is to identify then rid the burdensome, unhealthy or outdated before adding the beneficial.

Being imperfect is universal. What’s important is how we move forward and deal with what’s lost. That’s growth. Also, accepting that the half we lost might have been for the best, even if we didn’t realize it at the time, is progress. So, be confident. Nurture your love by not dwelling on what’s absent. Avoid letting chaos or a demeaning presence occupy emptiness for the sake of appearing full. Don’t outsource your emotions for validation from an unworthy entity.

PART 2 – The Poetry

Drowning in sorrow

because you are leaving me.

I jumped in too soon.

As I flail about,

will you toss me a life ring,

or a concrete block?

Both are solutions

to my current state of mind

over losing you.

The first prolongs it,

the latter, ultimately,

brings on my demise.

I need to purge this

constant feeling of longing

for something that’s gone.

This stagnation mode

compromises my future

and pulls me under.

So, just hold the ring

and let the concrete block sink.

I’m fine on my own.

I’ll want for nothing.

I’ll seek others to swim with.

I’ll float without you.

*I’ll apologize in advance if any references in this gift request plants a festive earworm in your head. But, like the motto underneath my family crest states: Si nos miseri erimus, ceteri quoque erunt.*

All I want for Christmas is to get “All I Want for Christmas” banished from my skull. I don’t think Ms. Carey’s annual ditty is a bad song per se. Many people enjoy listening to it while getting into the holiday spirit. It’s perfect background noise for wrapping presents or decorating the home. Since October 29th,1994, it has successfully targeted a specific niche from Thanksgiving to December 26th. I can’t dismiss its popularity. Kudos to its longevity.

But much to my chagrin, it dominates the seasonal soundtrack of my life. My limited mental capacity can’t, hasn’t or won’t commit all the lyrics to memory. And I don’t have the intellectual fortitude to prevent the fragments I can recall from replaying over and over ad nauseum. So, I am powerless to stop it from being the only partial song (holiday or otherwise) aired on heavy rotation from my mind’s DJ booth. I can’t ignore it either.

So, what I want to find under my Christmas tree is the cessation of being auditorily waterboarded by portions of this tune. Granting release from such Yuletide torture is a priceless gift that keeps on giving. I’ll be forever indebted if Santa leaves this for me.

Now, I am a fervent believer in the concept of “careful what you wish for.” I accept that when random lines from the Queen of Christmas’ jingle spontaneously surface, monopolizing the Muzak playlist echoing through the empty halls of my addled brain, it means there’s no possible way “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” or “Dominick the Donkey” will be able to gain purchase in my noggin.

It’s a victory, albeit a hollow one. I understand a blessing is a blessing even if said blessing is an incessant, lesser-of-three-evils one that can drive a man to the breaking point where he purposely doesn’t hang the stockings by the chimney with care. Still, a bit of variety or say in what I hear would be welcomed.

Psychological intervention may be necessary to discover why I can’t cue up something more appealing from my personal, archived mixtape. There are many suitable alternative carols with beautiful melodies I would cherish listening to internally. Like “Carol of the Bell.” Or “Silver Bells.” Both bring me auricular pleasure, but neither can loosen Mariah’s stranglehold and they stay muted. (At this juncture, I’d even settle for “Hells Bells” on continuous loop it if meant Mimi gets a break to rest her vocal cords.)

Thankfully, 2025 will be here soon which means “AIWFC” will have run its course and be shelved for eleven months. This gives me hope knowing that in a few days, there will be no cueing up of uninvited music that will keep playing.

To those reading this, I’ll end by extending a heartfelt “Merry Christmas.” If you don’t celebrate Christmas, then I’ll bid you a sincere “Happy Hanukkah.” For the non-religious in attendance, I’ll offer a generalized, “Happy Holidays.” For the remaining who don’t celebrate anything, I’ll conclude with a simple, “Be well and look both ways before crossing the street.”

Your emergence into this world begins with your first inhalation. Your transition out of this world begins after your final exhalation. Although the circumstances vary, both moments are inevitable and common denominators for everyone. A little or a lot, if you are drawing air into your lungs, removing the oxygen component and releasing the byproduct, then you’re living. Breathing is a fundamental and imperative basis for each person’s existence.

So, the standard by which we measure the caliber of our life shouldn’t be how deep a breath we take. A purpose-driven life comes from how we utilize our talents during and between respirations. Success, and failure, is what gives value to time. Having value to time is indicative of leading a quality life. Looking back on where we were in relation to where we are will prove if our lives are meaningful.

A breath’s intensity doesn’t matter. The toddler’s small puff of air is sufficient for blowing out two birthday candles. That’s enough to give her a sense of pride while bringing joy to those sitting around the table applauding the feat. Whispering “I love you and will see you again someday,” to an unresponsive spouse in hospice care delivers both a reminder and a promise that exemplifies the commitment to a decades-long union. The cancer patient in remission belts out, with full, forceful exhalation, Auld Lang Syne as a defiant proclamation of victory. Screaming at the top of your lungs, “I deserve better,” is a cathartic empowerment. All these impactful moments were made possible using differing volumes of air.

Whether dealing with COPD or training for an Olympic marathon, an individual can make a difference in the world. Rejoice in whatever amount of air you’re breathing. If it yields positive results, your life is full.