“I’m still trying to find my place.” he said.
From all exterior assessments,
his place was clear:
nice house,
nice car,
good job,
nice wife,
nice kid.
But the place it looked like
he occupied
did not feel like his own.
He had carved it out
hoping,
praying,
it might become his.
Yet, after all of these years,
he felt like a stranger.
A man without a place.
And the non-place he now occupied
didn't allow for him to admit
his dislocation.
Until it all
fell apart,
fell away,
and he lost
the place
everyone else thought he had.
And for the first time
in a long time,
he thought expectantly,
“Now what?”
You see
your place,
my place,
our place
is not defined
by things and stuff,
by titles and degrees,
or any exterior measure.
Our place is best carved
in our minds,
slowly,
methodically,
intentionally,
Every. Single. Day.