Gup, Spiders, & What Might Be Next…
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“Right,” the woman said.
“Bottom line is that it’s a redemptive and promising tale about famous iconic photographs from the summer of 1979,” I said. “By the end, Danny’s a resilient fellow who gets another shot at life, he’s stable. Granted, it took him ten years to straighten everything out.”
“Bravo,” Billy said, and so I autographed some extra copies of Wolf-Boy and we all headed out to find dinner at The Cantina down the block aways.
*          *          *
Gup’s attention was like sunshine on our faces, his smile was a healthy dose of Vitamin D to our bodies. It gave us energy and a true zeal to be near him, around him, a part of his inner sanctum. It was as if he gave all of us an emotional B-12 shot that worked wonders. It was a riot, truly, for when Gup was with us, my brothers and sisters never fought, we were too busy trying to listen or get Gup’s attention. We’d watch our lives reflected in Gup’s emerald peepers. The best for us grandkids was to get a chance be alone with Gup, to have his rapt focus centered on only you, or me or sister or a brother. But he had his rules, too. He loved fireflies and insisted we never catch one, for that was the Divine in action. 
“How do you beat glow-in-the-dark mini-jets?” he’d ask me. “What else could we demand from our wonderful creator after that beauty?”
“They’re insects, Gup,” I said. “Grimy lousy bugs.” 
“To watch these miracles for a short while is quite a joy, truly it’s an honor,” he said. “It’s like we can sit back and enjoy the Divine’s brilliance showing off for a wild, unforgettable show.”
“I thought you said it was Mother Nature?” I asked.
He shook his hands in a wobbly manner: “One in the same - like Jesus, Buddha, Moses, Vishnu, Mary Magdalene, the Kennedy’s, and the Divine One himself.”
“Can I put a firefly in a glass jar?” I’d ask.
“We can’t ever get in the way of holy and Divine magic,” Gup said. “We must let things glow and respect his creations, not gobble it up like it’s your Ma’s famous turkey stuffing on holidays.”
*          *          *
Aimee did some editing for my writing and sometimes was nothing short of my muse, and she’d helped me with prompts sometimes. “Ok,” she’d say. “Go back to where you were following me along the trail, dropping breadcrumbs so you wouldn’t get lost, even where you were literally stuck in your thick, occluded arteries of your own heart. Just when you were ready to quit the monotony of your life, a cardiologist out of Mississippi with a lilt to boot, saves your existence with a tiny stent that clears the passages better than smelling salts ever did in the olden days.”
“What a clutch surgeon that man from Hartford was,” I said. “And he liked to wear these funky socks, too.”
“So, what happens now?” Aimee asks.  
“Somehow life finds a way and we must all continue,” I said. “We need to leave that trendy neighborhood where all shit broke loose and fly for a while on the freeway and cross into seven unique states in suicide machines, as only the Boss put it fifty-years ago or more. There’s a significant hill in a county, not amazingly steep, but it wears you down bit by bit and it’s probably five miles long if you measured it out with a pedometer or a Garmin or Apple watch, or whatever the hell kids wear today.”