Do It Again

Jackson moved into the light, lifting a hand to shade his eyes. Somewhere in front of him a voice spoke, saying, "Not this time."
He nodded and shuffled off to the corner, trying not to let the others see his disappointment. He leaned against the rough stone that defined the cell and, with his back to the others, shook loose a sob coated in phlegm and bitter tears.
"Jackson?" It was Raleigh. He felt her hand on his back and the touch provoked more tears and he turned and buried his face in her shoulder.
"Maybe the old man can help, this time."

There was a garden in which people gathered and reminisced about life and love, dreaming of the day when they could return. They swapped stories of their past lives and the people they knew and had known as they strolled past the fig tree that defined the centre of the world.
Underneath the tree, the breeze that silently swept away the bad memories was warm and encouraged serenity, calm and reflection, and it was here that they found the old man. He was always here, chatting away the days under the protective arms of the tree, usually surrounded by a crowd of advice-seekers, acolytes and admirers. They drifted away as Jackson approached, without looking at him, without saying anything. He was getting used to the way they ignored him. Only Raleigh and the old man spoke to him.
"What is it this time?" the old man said as Jackson slumped beside him on the bench.
"Why won't they take me?" Jackson said.
"How many times do I have to tell you, you're just not ready," the old man said patting Jackson on the knee, "You stink of regret and sorrow, you ooze a melancholy sap from every pore of your body and you can't look anyone in the eye. No one wants to be near you, except Raleigh, and she's as bad as you. You're just not ready. You need to take some time off, go on a retreat or something. You need to relax."
Jackson nodded his head but held on tight to his desire. The old man sighed and sat back. He absently picked at the hem of his robe and then clasped his hands together, his thumbs pointing up. He up-ended his church and said, "And there are all the people," with a giggle to himself.
Jackson stirred beside him.
"What?" he said.
"Nothing, Jackson, I didn't say anything." The old man sat forward once again and turned to face him.
"You just don't get it, son. The whole idea is that you go back with a clear conscience and an empty mind. You don't have room in yours for a mote of dust, you're so cluttered and confused. What is it that you can't let go of? What's made you so sad, so heavy? It's only life. You go, you get to see some neat stuff, you stock up on some anecdotes and you come back. I don't understand what the problem is."
Jackson shuddered to attention.
"Only life?" he said, "That's what I can't understand. You say it's only life but it's so much more than that. It's meaningful and grand, sad and sorrowful. It's intense and ripe, it's catastrophic and it's elemental. It's the most profound experience I've ever had. It's not some sort of divine amusement park carousel that you climb on for fun. Everyone around here thinks it's such a gas to be born and to live, when it's the most precious gift any of us has ever experienced."
"An amusement park carousel? I like that. Jackson, you have quite a way with words," the old man beamed at him.
Jackson refused to be baited however, and sat silently until the old man relented.
"Alright," he said, with a grumble, "One more, but I'm not kidding when I tell you that if you don't lighten up this time around I'm going to be very displeased with you when you get back."
Jackson jumped up even before the old man had finished speaking and ran to the gate. As he jostled his way to the front of the line, the old man turned his attention to Raleigh.
"And you. What's your problem?"
"Me? I got no problem, old man. I just came by to say 'Hey'."
"Why don't I believe you?" said the old man.
"Because you're a suspicious old coot, that's why. But thanks for letting Jackson go back," she said with a small smile, "He really does take things so seriously. Maybe this time he'll have more fun. He's such a lump when he's here. I like him, though."
The old man clapped his hands together and laughed, "Oh, good," he said, "That makes my day."
"Don't make fun of me," she cried and launched herself into the old man's lap.
"Never," he said with a laugh as he wrapped her in his arms. He sighed as she lay her head on his shoulder, and thought once again of Jackson. His normally bright luminescence was dulled for a moment.
"I like him too, my girl" he said in a quiet voice, "I like him, too."

Manitoba, 1976

At 5:23 the sky is a deep blue/black and the air is cool, slightly tainted with the smell of yesterday; not awake to the desires of the new day. You sleep through everything.

I leave the car idling and go into the supermarket, with you safe under the effects of too much alcohol and pot. The secretive whispers that escape your lips leave me curiously unruffled because I understand the tone, if not the meaning. It's been three days of silence, impressed upon me by the empty horizon and the memory of loss.
The lights in here are bright and unforgiving. I realize that I must look exactly like I feel, and impishly decide to strut a little more and slouch a little less.
"Can I help you?' a girl says from behind the counter which is strewn with the evidence of too few customers. Three or four magazines lie on their backs, portraying a world of luxury studded with the embarrassments of a public life. An empty bag of potato chips spins on its axis as I breeze past and answer, "Not unless you've got a cure for needless suffering, or a remedy for heartache," I say.
"Pardon me?"

I hate driving at night. My eyes have never been good and the twinkling of far off houses, the lights left on for safety and to fend of the riot of night, only confuse my depth-perception. Everything seems more relevant in the pre-dawn hours, before the sun can burn away the melancholy of sleeplessness. That should be a bumper sticker, I think, while looking for a box of crackers that doesn't have the words 'low salt' on the front.
In the middle of the aisle sits a man, with his back to me, on an upended box, pricing cans of soup to put on the shelf. The snickering recoil of his gun is the only thing I can hear above the music being piped down from the speakers above. He looks up at me as I approach and, suddenly self-conscious, straightens his back as the gun's patter picks up speed.
"Morning," I grunt and he nods in return.
"Can I help you find something?" he says, and I pause, wondering what it is that I'm looking for.

The sun flashes across the dash, as I crest the hill, leaving another town behind and before the light of day can identify me, or you for that matter. We're beyond all that now, I think. You murmur in your sleep and try to turn away from the light, but not before you crack one eye open and say, "Where are we?"
I don't answer and you are asleep again before the question can settle there between us, awkward and undisguised, looking for all the world like a guilty child, born into a family of want.