As a child, I had that fleeting belief
that life would be a battle,
a raging war,
and I’d come home a hero.
Dragons and monsters in the rearview,
blood and guts on my boots,
a house with a light on for me,
a family waiting at the door.
I believed in that kind of ending.
I wanted that kind of ending.
Instead, I broke things I said I’d protect.
I treated love like flowers from a garden—
cut and placed in a vase on the table,
admired sometimes,
but never really seen.
I took them for granted
until they weren’t there anymore.
I drank like it could fill the space in me
that kept echoing back.
And I can’t blame them for leaving.
For the longest time
I figured that was the story.
The final scene, dark theater, credits rolling.
Lying under bridges,
empty vodka bottles for a pillow.
Vomit and degradation
felt like my plight, like the only ending left.
But I got humble.
Something picked me up from the gutter
and rearranged my values,
my thought process.
And it hasn’t been the same since.
Now it’s quieter.
Nine irons instead of war drums.
Fairways greener than my youth.
Walleye on the grill.
Cats on the couch
like they’ve always belonged there.
No dragons left.
The monsters are all dead.
Just mornings that stay.
Just breath,
and the long work of making it right
one day at a time.