He won’t go away.
He still knocks. Like a pesky door-to-door salesman… i leave no forwarding address and yet and still… here he is.
i peer through the peephole, amazed at his persistence… offended by his insistence even in the face of the “No Solicitors” sign… he’s at it again.
i ignore the knocks until their sound is deafening to me… perhaps his message will be different this time? Maybe he has something of value to offer? And so i take the tiny note he slips under the door and i sit on the floor inside my house and i read it until its words are jumbled in my tears and i cannot make sense of them.
i crumple them up…the words… same message.
He’s no salesman. His is a travelin’ medicine show from which he peddles snake oil. He’s a revival preacher… hoisting his big tent and thundering his message of damnation and dangling hope of salvation. He is padre and pastor and father and freak and daddy and monster and man.
i am amazed at how this mere man can reduce me to the most common of elements… to bone and sinew… fear impulses… pounding heartbeats… tears…
i resolve… a word Master used today in an altogether different context… i resolve. He can pound all he wants, but i need not answer his fists. He will tire eventually. He will die. His knock will stop one day. i may even miss it… who can say?
But be now… i am here. i am now.