yet again.

There is a soft music surrendering to the reflection of my mind.  Perhaps Jazz or some tender R&B but in this memory I am sitting on a park bench with no one around me but traffic and little black squirrels gnawing on egg corns distracting me the stranger who is staring my way.  I agreed to meet him but was hopeful it wasn’t him.  I was at a stage of curiosity back then and meeting other men who shared my feelings led me to meeting places of pre-destined connection.  But it doesn’t always work out that way which is the risks we take when meeting someone we only communicated with through a computer screen.  I had no real confidence as I look back and probably have encountered people I would never give the time to today.  But that was the only way back then; back when who I was had to be a secret because being gay was no option.

I can say as I sit here focused on the continuing act of becoming, I have come a long way on a path I was afraid to even step on over seven years ago.  There have been times I never thought love was possible because there were men who didn’t even care about my name, never mind my heart.  It would’ve been easier to live a lie then to try to orchestrate a symphony of connection in this world.  But I can say I have been lucky to find some great supportive friends along the way who made being me something to be proud of.  And eventually I found that love although temporarily but that connection taught me many things about myself and the possibilities out there.  And it made me believe in the purity of passion.
            As I…
as I look down at this hardwood floor, I realize how everything is not meant to be smooth.  We are meant to encounter those rough spots and I sure have had those rough spots but that’s what make hardwood floors structured artwork; that’s what makes life a crafted survival.  And a constant reminder of what this life can be is a “thank you” card for entering the life of another; a “thank you” for being me and it sits on a large black speaker in the corner

across a splintered floor.

© 2010

Tarringo T. Vaughan