To Be Honest, The Only Thing I

Every Year The Hunters Shot Cows And Horses And Family Pets And Each Other. And Unbelievably, They Sometimes Shot Themselves, Perhaps In A Psychotic Episode Where They Mistook Themselves For Dinner

After Spending Most Of Her Life Scanning The Horizon For Slights And Threats, Genuine And Imagined, She Knew The Real Threat To Her Happiness Came Not From The Dot In The Distance, But From Looking For It. Expecting It. Waiting For It. And In Some Cases, Creating It. Her Father Had Jokingly Accused Her Of Living In The Wreckage Of Her Future. Until One Day She'd Looked Deep Into His Eyes And Saw He Wasn't Joking. He Was Warning Her.

The Women In The Room Chatted About Love, About Childhood, About Losing Parents, About Mr. Spock, About Good Books They'd Read. They Mothered Each Other.

Foolish People Are Never Harmless. Stupidity Accounts For As Many Crimes As Anger And Greed.

But There Was No Hiding From Conscience. Not In New Homes And New Cars. In Travel. In Meditation Or Frantic Activity. In Children, In Good Works. On Tiptoes Or Bended Knee. In A Big Career. Or A Small Cabin. It Would Find You. The Past Always Did. Which Was Why... It Was Vital To Be Aware Of Actions In The Present. Because The Present Became The Past, And The Past Grew. And Got Up, And Followed You. And Found You... Who Wouldn't Be Afraid Of This?