Spaghetti Reverie

You get home late, and there’s a pile of work yet to be done. Plans to fire up get put on hold, and the chicken, yeah, it’ll make another day. The world can wait, our plans can wait. With blunted chisels we chip at blocks of ice, to sculpt a last minute masterpiece. You, my friend, harnessed the wild, invisible things, cobbled bits of metal and glass, of tears, and sweat, and blood. We joined you to plod through the cornfields, through hail and stones, hammering drums outside castles, eyes open for threat and redemption. Cutting through forests of dense, foggy trees, like walls of brick and fire. Still waters burst forth through collapsing dams, mighty pillars crumble before us. These are the times when our wives sooth our souls with words of quiet comfort. “Would you like me to make you spaghetti?”