Whisper the Word

Until two years ago, I didn’t really understand the meaning of the word dystopian. I should have known that word, but I didn’t. Now I whisper the word to myself nearly everyday. Are we at level five dystopia, or are we closer to level ten? My dreams are starting to reflect an unavoidable dystopian future.

You’re angry. I’m depressed. Not much difference between us. I’m losing faith. I hear my father’s voice and his favorite phrase, “Keep the faith!” and I think to myself, how?. I don’t know how.

Here’s an understatement. Things are pretty damn bad.

But I love you and I’m grateful to have you as my … fill in the blank … friend, spouse, sibling, child, grandchild.

You’re angry. I’m depressed. Understandable.

Toothpicks, Postmortem

He uses them, I find them.

On the kitchen floor.

In the lint catcher of the dryer.

In the dryer. On the floor near the dryer.

In his car.

In my car.

With each finding, I march to him holding the wooden spear aloft.

Look, another one. This one was attached to the cat bed.

Just put it on the counter, he mumbles briefly gazing up from his book.

I’ll check the points later to see if it has any life left in it.