This week my muse is telling me I should post every day for the next 7 days. She has been telling me this for the last 2 days, but I’ve been stalling. I’ve been trying to talk her out of this.

Every day?!?!?

“Yes,” she says with a soft smile, while firmly nodding her head.

It is not an easy thing to consider. There’s a lot going on (as usual). I’m traveling (again). I have a job interview on Monday, and if it goes well, I’ll be looking for a place to live and organizing another move.

Please listen to the audio as you read this first installment of my mini-marathon.

So once upon a time….

Thirty-one years ago a little boy was born. He had light brown hair, dark brown eyes, a squished up face and he cried a lot. Poor little guy. His Mom wasn’t ready for her 4th baby. She was only 23 and her first born wasn’t yet four.

She named him Benjamin. She said, “He is the son of my right hand.” She felt like Jacob, when Rachel died in childbirth, because her husband had left her while she was pregnant with little Benjamin and she wasn’t sure how she was going to go on.

But the world didn’t stop turning and the days turned into months and then into years. Benjamin became Benjie, and he grew strong and healthy. He loved playing outside and had a big yard with swings, a big sand pile and trees to climb. It wasn’t long before he was riding a 2-wheel bicycle and playing cricket with the neighbors.

Benjie liked nothing better than to build himself a kite and then go ‘up’ it. For a while he lived and breathed kites. Quite often the strong Caribbean trade winds would break the kite string and it would dance merrily away in the sky, slowly getting lower as it lost its fight with gravity. Ben and his Mom would jump into the car and Ben would be the navigator as they careened down cart tracks and across cane fields determined to get his latest creation back in one piece.

He built go-carts with his brother and raced them down the hill. His Mom patched up many skinned knees and scraped elbows. Ben was curious about everything and he often asked questions, but usually he had to find out for himself.

He was fully aware of the dangers of playing with fire. His parents and teachers had drilled it into him, but it didn’t stop him from ridding the yard of ant nests by dousing them with gasoline and then throwing a burning match on the saturated ant hill. One day, his Mom turned around when she heard him yell and was horrified to see him immersed in flames. He was dropping and rolling like they had told him to do at school, but the flames just kept bursting out the next side as he rolled over. His Mom grabbed the hose, but the water only trickled out of it. For some unknown reason there was no water pressure. He grabbed his shirt off over his head and peeled off his shorts.

Everyone looked at his leg.

The skin on the front of his leg looked like silly putty. He looked up at his Mom. “Is it bad?” he asked her. She could only nod her head and then kiss his cheeks as she held his head in her hands. He knew it was bad, and she wished she could tell him otherwise. To be continued……

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