Transition: Stop

STOP

“Transition, I’ll call it transition because life is transition, unending transition,” I says to myself, I says, says I, standing in light rain in the middle of Calhoun Avenue, watching the red taillights of her car as she drives away yet one more time again. Stop, I can’t stand it. Don’t you see the stop sign? 

My fourth, my third girl, growing up and driving away, leaving me standing in the rain staring at the stop sign and wondering where life went.

Behind this MacPages panel I’m typing my blog post on, a Google News panel keeps flashing, changing, transition as I live and breathe and type and have my being and sip my coffee.

An enormous airliner vanishes and can’t be found, either lying in pieces at the bottom of an ocean or standing covertly being loaded with explosives and hostages for its final redeye trip to -- Paris London NYC ... while clowns float the word nefarious as though they just discovered it.  

In a landslide referendum, Crimea votes to rejoin Russia. U.S. government condemns, vows never to accept the citizens’ referendum and begins sanctions, is our government insane, don’t answer that. Couldn’t care less about political games, looks like self-determination, smells like self-determination, votes like self-determination ... Comes to mind: Texas history, Lone Star flag, band playing “The eyes of Texas are upon you” and arms raised in longhorn salute. U. S. government doesn’t like that secession idea either. 

Seven-thirty in the morning, pitch black dark in Tallahassee, second cuppa, loving cream-colored cat name of Daisy snuggles up beside me, commences to purr, and curls into a nap. TGIM.

Stop.

W