Not certain where the greatest joys and sadness belong in the wide tapestry, but one thing which could belong somewhere in that exalted arena of human experience is turning a key in the ignition of a vehicle. The Angel of Greed had watched my numerous and sometimes clumsy efforts at the work of repair, he's ever critical, and from the beginning he's been keenly anticipating the prospect of this reach for heroism ending in yet another puddle of ennui that precedes an episode of terminal foot stamping followed by a dramatic decline into blob-like wretchedness. It's a facet of humanity the Angel of Greed is familiar with and he's very fond of witnessing, Bless him.
Having reconnected the battery, I sat in driver's seat, allowed myself a brief
glimpse of a future that might include cheerfully taking the trash to the end of
the lane. The pick-up truck sighed, he mentioned something about a slightly
wider horizon, ice cream from the Grocery Store and he reminded me of the
pleasure he gets from the parking area of the Hardware Store, a box of nails for
old times sake. Then without anything that might be described as confidence he
said "Give it a go." The Angel of Greed was gleeful from the doorway, and The
Artist, recognizing elevated levels of tension in her house mate, was trying to
pretend that she wasn't actually there. Either way, after a bit of a lie down I
feel about ten years younger.