The Great Reset.

A meditation on private collapse, public spectacle, and the quiet devastations we carry.

There is, perhaps, a quiet devastation
in everything we have ever done.
The note I left on the granite kitchen counter—
a list of things to do whilst I travelled.
You’re forgetful, so if I put it in ink, I convince myself it will happen.
But perhaps you’re not quite so forgetful—
just stubborn.

‘Water the lawn, twice.
Water the houseplants but only once—you’ll kill them otherwise.
It’s recycling day on Monday.
Do not let Wren watch too many shorts; make sure he exercises.
Reschedule his piano lessons.
Order four AA batteries for our daughter’s fluorescent sign that says "Chill."
Find a home for the jasmine I uprooted—it’ll wither and die otherwise.

—

I love you.’

This missive is, perhaps, a lonely manifestation
of everything I have ever done.

Perhaps we even knew it was happening,
at times, during arguments
where spittle and bile filled the air.

Perhaps, after all,
we were both complicit in this slow,
manufactured demise.

Perhaps, if we will it into existence,
this will be known as The Great Reset.
The red button was pushed.
Ctrl + Alt + Delete.
The rebooting of our system—
hoping it could rekindle our marriage.

I boarded the plane.
It so happened to be an honor flight:
one WWII veteran, six Korean War veterans,
multiple from the Vietnam War.
Whooping and hollering,
tiny American flags being waved,
obese strangers
grotesquely stuffed into tiny seats.

It means nothing to me.
There is no valor here.
This is my dishonor roll.

I imagine all the horrors these gentlemen must have seen—
a hollowed-out victory,
only to live with the slow death of memory,
their own personal march into oblivion.
Their prize?
A vacuous ceremony from strangers.

And yet, to me,
it pales into insignificance
when I compare it to the battle raging inside.
Our silent acquiescence.

The night before this trip, as I awaited intimacy,
I felt a small nodule—perhaps a lump—
in my left testicle.

A restless night followed—
for once, for different reasons.

I drifted off to lands truly separated by wars—
to my homeland, the patchwork quilted map of Europe.
Travel two hours in any direction
and you end up in a different culture, a different tongue.
Those wars were worth fighting for.
Do the same in the United States
only to find the monotonous repetition of retail parks.

These heroes.
Their elegy—a flight.
And that is all.

I offer hollow applause for these fallen heroes,
as all I yearn for
are European train rides,
to memorialize a well-spent youth
through Germany, France, and Italy.

To commemorate my past,
and celebrate whatever our future may hold.

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