I had a second chance today, in the morning, when I woke up. It wasn’t a practical second chance, the kind they write about in the movies.

But I woke up, in the morning, fingers and toes intact, and I decided I would get up and face the day, face it like anyone else would. We give a lot of credence to second chances, to making them the things that define us, house us in their bellies, give us more and give us less. We make them into old things, make them into new things, cut them up and put them back together again, make them new and shiny and pure.

We give and we take and we show up and we lose, and we make sure that we know those things, make sure that we know that we’ve lost, that we’ve done things that are irrecoverable in their nothingness, but they are nothingness nonetheless. They are nothing like we are nothing like we are something, all built up and rounded out and thrown together like we are. Have we finished all of the getting yet?

I asked myself this morning, looking in the mirror at the same old face, the face that is young but will get old one day if I’m lucky. I thought about second chances and the way they sync up, the way they move and blur into third and fourth and sixth chances and then we just take the one that works out as a second chance.

I am a second chance in the morning, a third chance by breakfast, and a fourth at noon. I am a fifth at four and a sixth at five and maybe 12 before I hit the pillow. Second and third and old and new, something, nothing, today is still new.

A Short Conversation is a collection of stories, thoughts, and general musing. I like to write like I'm slamming a door; loudly, and with purpose.

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