Sharply. Acutely. No… keenley. In the months since his mother’s sudden death, he felt his age keenly. The cruel insight that often accompanies such sudden loss had made him aware of his prospects as a man balanced pointedly atop his middle age, staring down a murky path. Health would be an increasing problem from here forward. Having no children of his own, when his time came to an end, it was likely there would be no one to see him off.
The bold and beneficent halo that had surrounded his head since childhood, consecrating and protecting him and lighting his way, had faded as the cruelties of the world stabbed into his brain with their thorny malice. The past bellowed loudly: How little he had made of the abundant opportunities, all that he’d taken for granted and exhausted, all he had surrendered and never reclaimed. Things would not — his fine mind assured him — get any easier, unless he surrendered. Unless he accepted the available options. Unless he compromised. He had been gifted with a venomous clarity, and when one has clarity, one has no choice.
– from Attempted Birdhouse by Totie Gabor
