I was packing the last remaining items in my apartment when a gentle breeze whispered through the eighth story windows pushing dust and dirt across the weathered wood floor. Saint Peter was waiting for me to let him in at the front door downstairs. After taking the service elevator to the lobby, an old man, mad at God, played the electric organ while struggling with a constant duality of love and hate. I set my belongings aside to listen to his haunting interpretation of Franz Liszt’s “Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2”.

Wonderful is the thought of adding additional table leafs before dinner and never having enough place settings for guests.

I have a problem peeing under pressure in public restrooms. An ex-girlfriend of mine suggested I try counting backwards from ten. It seemed to do the trick. By the time I finished counting down, I had released my fluids despite distractions. It worked like clockwork. But last December, while welcoming the New Year, I pissed myself at the stroke of midnight.

I had wanted to walk with her, holding hands, strong, strength striking unsuspecting guests as we enter the room, captivating - the two of us, fearless, marching forward through a foray of friendly enemy. I can see us now… connected, faith fitting figuratively in the palm of our hands, our flirting fingers fighting feverishly as we unconsciously kiss wrists. Arriving late, leaving early… without ever saying hello or goodbye.

I glass over, glossy glaring, staring… steady, ready, raring. My father’s grandfather clock in the corner keeping rhythm with my metronome heart. My eyes fault-fixed on a flaw in the patterned wallpaper. The phone rings. I wait, refusing to answer. I can feel the vibrating bells atop the table down its legs through the tile under my feet. I pick up, placing the receiver over my ear. I can hear her breathing.

“Hello?”

I love soft Sunday afternoons. Sleeping in the living room, easy chair reclined by the backyard screen door. Television set to tennis or golf. The subtle sound of announcers whispering play by play. Network microphones recording a calm quiet breeze gently blowing across the court or course. This my friend, is heaven.

What I got dot dot dot is purpose and principle period