Recovering from a skull fracture, I was asked again by the Trooper to explain how I wrecked my truck. I consented, though I knew no one believed me.

“My truck slid off the road because of the icy conditions and rolled down the hillside near the old Orphir mine,” I said. “I hit my head but never lost consciousness and crawled out my busted windshield.”

The uniformed woman jotted down some notes and asked me to continue.

“I tried to get back the hill but couldn’t,” I continued. “That’s when I smelled smoke from a fire, and so I went to find it to get some help.”

“It didn’t take me very long to find it, but it was unattended, so I sat down to warm myself,” I told her. “I was sleepy but knew I might have a concussion and had to fight off the sleep.”

A few minutes after sitting down, soon I was accompanied by a group of men,” I added. “They weren’t your regular sort of men, the tallest being about a foot or so in height.”

“One of them began dressing my head wound and another to feed me and give me something warm to drink,” I stated. “I could not understand anything they were saying and figured it was because of my head injury.”

“Can you repeat what you heard?” she wanted to know.

“Something like, ‘go seek pens brew,’” I offered phonetically.

“Any idea how you got back to your truck?” she queried.

“No idea,” I said. “I must have lost consciousness and was carried back, cuz that’s where I woke up.”

“How do you explain your truck being on the side of the road and no longer in the ditch, then?” the Trooper asked.

“Not a clue,” I answered.

“Are you sure that your truck went down the embankment?” she asked.

“Certain,” I returned.

“Well, we didn’t find a scrap of evidence that your truck went off the road,” she frowned. “You must have been hallucinating or something.”

“And?” I asked certain there was something she was not saying.

“We can’t explain the tiny muddy footprints and the small handprints in your blood located in the cab of your truck,” she finally said.

I relaxed and smiled.

Standing there in my grief, I watched as she walked away from me and out of my life. I watched as the darkness of the night swallowed her up.

Looking down, I studied the diamond ring that she had returned. It no longer held the shine that I remembered the day I gave it to her, the day she said yes.

When I looked up again, she was gone, but then so were the street lamps, each wrapped in their Christmas best, which lined the sidewalk. Then I realized that the night and its inkiness had swallowed everything, including me.

It has been difficult for me to do any personal writing for the last few days. That is how busy I have been, writing for the two newspapers and attending holiday events.

And no, I am not complaining. It has been ages since I’ve been invited to a dinner party or to attend a festive gathering and not expected to write about it.

I will complain about a lack of mistletoe, though.

Along with these things, I also have my usual chores to complete. Since my wife works outside the house and I work from home, for the most part, I do much of the laundry, including making beds.

Of course, I also get the occasional ‘honey-do’ list, which isn’t so bad. Oddly, holiday events have become the difficult thing.

Why? I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut and only listen.

So, what am I saying as I spin this post into something more extended than it need be? If I’d be quiet and listen, I’d probably have something decent to write and worth reading.

Now, to deal with the limited time I have each day because two hours of sleep every night is far too much to maintain such a crazy schedule.

I don’t get nearly enough credit for all the things I manage not to say.

Do you know why God didn’t allow dogs to speak? To teach us that love and loyalty are demonstrated by actions and not words

I can’t believe it’s Omicron season already. I still have my Delta Variant decorations on display.

Wrapping Presents is Folding Laundry’s asshole cousin.

Home is where you trust the toilet seat.

When born, her parents saw nothing but a bright future ahead for their only child, a daughter they named Sally. But try as hard as they could, though an attentive and imaginative little girl now a toddler, she refused to talk.

Then one day, when she was out of her parent’s sight, she found a bobby pin on the floor and proceeded to slip it into an electrical wall outlet. The results were as expected, with a power surge vacating the home and the child shouting in pain.

Sally’s parents spent the next fifteen years trying to shut her up, and were thankful when she went to college.

Omicron, when unscrambled, is Moronic