Hospital Bed

If you were to find an old calendar, strap it to a hospital bed, tie it down by its weak ends, and then sea section the belly of it's pages, you'd find the winding roads of my intestinal past. I used to be a ballot box filled of everyone else's opinion except for my own. My swagger was like watching a Walkman trying to swallow a DVD. When I was a little younger, I walked as if I were concerned about how the ground would feel about my footsteps. And if I could just find a way to write a letter to myself, when I was a sweater with itchy sleeves that I would someday grow out of, I would say, "There will be days you will feel like a peacock with no feathers. You will feel flightless, and undeserving of attention." But listen, listen to me. LISTEN. You have to stop getting out of bed like you are an oil spill. You're not a flat tire at 2 am, so stop acting like an accident. Spenser, you are an apple on a pine tree in a room full of lemons, and you come from a line of authentic Swiss army pocket knives; Men who are rare, sharp and dangerous when not handled carefully. Somedays I wish my arms were a few years longer so that I could reach back, grab you by the shoulders, punch you in the chest, and say, "Listen. You are the main character in a movie that I watch every time I see the inside of my eyelids." I told myself a million times that I wouldn't spoil the ending, but I will tell you this: Your story starts off really slow, but it does get better. You don't have to believe me. Someday you'll see for yourself. I will see her again soon. At the apex of her driveway that I can now see in my dreams, I will ignore the washing machine in my stomach. I'll tell her that she looks beautiful. I will extend my arms like a drawbridge to a castle no one has visited in years. Pressure washing my fears from my hardened heart, I will show her how far I've come from the hospital bed.