Traitor's Grief

The visualized two little heads peeking up from the imaginary stock pond have retreated. Dunno where to. The mute girl in charge could lead them to places adults seldom notice for just about any length of time. Perhaps even long enough for the drunks in the house to notice and wonder if the brats might not come back this time. Hints which have leaked between the memory blocks indicate she might have stayed gone long enough for the drunks to find batteries for their flashlights. My guess is that she is following the watershed which slopes to the river. Water running down hill is one of the few consistencies in this world. The narrow creases in the bottom of dip in the land will often lead to a water source quicker than a drunk can dirty all the glasses in a cabinet. Well. . . That is not so true in the plains as it is in some places, but the principle remains. The adult I am today can guess from her maps that she will reach the Brazos River in an hour or three. If nothing too intriguing tempts her on the way. . .

On a childish day, the under-sized older boy would have followed her without question. Questioning a mute with words is typically pointless. On a caddy invasion day? That mute brat took her kicking lessons from mules! Inability to rely on words makes for a genuinely diverse Academic Staff. The untrusted memories which make me think I evaded more than one search crew --like it's hard to evade morons with flashlights. Ya can see 'em from a mile off-- do not include any clues on Big Bro. For sure, he never could keep up with me at a dead run.

Got my focus rocking for a little while today. The day is not over. Might get it back. Still reminding myself that the harder I chase focus, the more it will elude me. Made some good progress toward packing for the Northward drive. Then started the text string from sons, etc., and hubs. . . Knocked the wind right out of those sails. . . No unified conspiracy or any such. Just a steady stream of interruption, each with their own reason for the text.

The title of this post made sense when I typed it. Lost the thread. . . Something to do with the contrast between the social event of Mister Surname's self-prearranged funeral and the grief for my unsung poet brother. Several folks at Mister Surname's event encouraged all the attendants to celebrate his life. Indeed, it was a good life by any measure. A stark contrast to my own birth family traditions.

Big Brother found his joys in life, but. . . In my heart I believe he is glad it is over. He was creamated at his own request. He liked the funeral symbology of freeing the spirit when the vessel can no longer hold it. I'm so sorry for your life, Big Bro. Nobody deserves that.

Sorting. . .