Michigan morning after the storm, ah but we’ve been here before, haven’t we?
Or maybe the storm isn’t over
Maybe life is the storm, and we the raindrops scattering in the wind, helpless and aimless and bound for nowhere
I saw a little slug on the sidewalk this storm-passed mourning
Making his way towards the grass, he told me that everything was okay
And so I stopped, anxious to listen to this new philosophy
He told me, carefully, that I was forgiven
That slug murders happen all the time, and I should understand being misunderstood
He explained that fear wasn’t her fault, only a mere symptom of living, and that letting go didn’t mean giving up
Often it meant moving on, as he had to do every second, with every movement, let go to move on
My slug went on to prophesize, though
He told me one day I too will make it to the other side, just as he will
Quietly with a tone that only confidence knows, he preached to me that all life is hard, but every one is worth the journey
I am sure he saw the doubt flash across my eyes that I tried to keep a brief one
Then he recoiled, when I tried to help him, and explained that some things we just have to do alone
He reminded me of the messages his ancestors had written out for us so long ago, the ones we could not read and I knew this meant that my ancestors had a message for me too, I just couldn’t read it yet
Before I could agree, the slug went on, attempting to convince me that this didn’t mean I should stop trying to learn the language
All will be revealed, he nearly proclaimed, and the universe is spinning, no doubt, exactly as it should be
As it was long before I met him on my sidewalk this morning, and long after I am an ancestor too
And so it was written, on a porch full of love amid a Baltimore summer day, lifetimes ago and last night in my dreams
I didn’t know how to thank him, so he thanked me, for listening, for allowing him to pass through
And I can’t be sure, but I think that he was happy he had mistook the way, that Michigan mourning, that always comes after the storm