missed millimeters and miles of grace

The life of a caboose is not always an easy one.

It often means to (unintentionally) get caught in the crossfire of two warring brothers.  It is just the way it is. And it makes for (too many) close calls.  Thankfully not all wounds require ER visits, but the location of this one made us realize that every missed millimeter equals miles of grace.

The puny girl in me ordered all weapons (commercial or self-invented) to the trashcan.  NO MORE WARS.  Obediently (and somewhat shaken by The Fritz’s almost-out-eye) the Pirates, Vikings, Barbarians, Indians, Union solders and Confederates lay down their swords, sticks, PVC pipes, 2x6’s (:-o), Mazoongas and logs at the feet of their loving and long-suffering?, oppressive?, traumatized Queen Mother.

But we all know it will not last long.  Slowly, subtly and shrewdly the weapons will mysteriously multiply again, the faintly familiar sounds of war will reach my ears, but not register in my cluttered conscience as potential danger. I will label it simply as boy-noise.  I will even enjoy it…  until the next wound.   May the missed millimeters be many and the miles of grace stretch w i d e and looooong and high and deep.