The melancholy I felt yesterday after learning that another minimum wage job was not mine turned into a sense of loss as I awoke this morning and realized that today is my second wife's birthday. I've tried with all my might to think of tomorrow as merely Thursday, a feat I've found easy in the past. Why is this year different? I have shelter and safety after losing all my possessions and living on the street last month. I have my wits about me (I think) and can feel the warm North Carolina sun streaming through the windows lining this wonderful library. So I write and hope that I will find some solace in my own words; in my sense that talent dwells within even if the ability to make a living still seems out of reach.

When the end was near in August I wrote a painful note to a handful of friends asking for help. It was humiliating but I realized that regret resided in either choice, the writing or not writing. So I wrote. I included my ex-wives on the list hoping for at least a kind word. My second wife recently friended me on Facebook after I wrote expressing condolence for the loss of her father. I received a few kind messages in response and one kind soul offered a small but much needed PayPal contribution. My second wife de-friended me. So as I contemplate the notion of sending her a birthday wish, I try to understand this need to connect with my painful past.

I walked 12 miles Sunday. I discovered another town was only six miles away and thought it may allow me to expand my job search so I walked to check out the possibility. Walking is a marvelous writing tool. On my way home a man approached from a church as I passed by and offered me a meal. I appreciated the meal and was grateful that they simply wished to show me kindness not to save me. They are good people and I'm happy to know they are among us regardless of affiliation. I've tried and tried to wash away the memories of the failed marriages, the losses and the mistakes. I've made mistakes in my life that allowed others to take advantage. I've made mistakes in my life that have caused friends to grow exhausted and walk wearily away. I've made mistakes in my life that have hurt others. The only constant thread is knowing that I've made mistakes in my life.

I can no more lose these memories than I can lose the ability to breath. I need each grain of memory to live. My life is a sandpile and that sandpile is my universe, the only atmosphere I can live in. Losing even the smallest grain may bring down the pile, suffocating me and causing me to disappear. I must accept that each grain will from time to time make its way to the surface. I may choose to pick up a grain and look upon it with regret, or despair, or joy then quickly return it to the pile.

While my mind will wander through the pile from time to time, it is in my dreams that the grains surface in mystical ways. The other night I dreamt of a round table. Sitting at it were four people having dinner. Myself, my second wife, and my first wife's parents. I don't remember the context or the conversation. I only remember waking up troubled, confused and alone. Here in one moment were different grains of memory coming together as if they were together all along. I miss even the bad experiences, at least they were shared with someone. If I was suffering at least I wasn't alone. Isolation kills. Loneliness is my constant companion now and knowing that you dear reader notice these words comforts me. I am not completely alone.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and I will do my best to keep busy. I'll enjoy the company of brown liquor and delight in Rick Danko's cheerful cry, 'Happy Thanksgiving' as I watch The Last Waltz (played loud). I'll sit on the porch and watch the world go by, I'll make the most of the day knowing that Friday is just a sunrise away. I hope to enjoy another Thanksgiving. I have great hope that I will still be alive; a glimmer of hope that I will thrive. Yet the sandpile abides; and so do I.