My duet with Annie.

Annie Lennox and I on a Saturday morning, my flamboyant bed pants and gray pullover “little bird” filling the air with its dulcimer tune. The Scottish singer seriously upstaging me with her heavenly tones. My toothbrush microphone unable to hold its own against the well marketed vocalist. I haven’t left my house in ages; years have rolled past in my perspective. My boredom getting the better of me but I refuse to go back out into the world that so shunned me. The song reaching its dramatic conclusion and the stage falls dark as I fall to my knees as if I had just had a javelin plunged through my rib cage, drawing the warriors last breath. “Ding Dong” the doorbell beckons from the front door of my humble abode sealed for several weeks now. Fear welling up from my lowing intestines into the pit of my empty stomach making it twice as hard to control my sweating palms. I refused all mail and contact from the outside world, wallowing in my self pity. Rubbing the trips of my fingers to my thumb on my free hang I approach the door. Ready to reject the visitor but still skeptical of even answering it to begin with. Again the bell sounds its demanding tone and I jump out of fear knocking over the coat rack. The clamor of the epic fail alerted the figure on my door step to a presence inside, now I must answer. Flinging the door open I witness the short child standing there, my emotions jittering wildly. “Jimmy is that you” I manage through tears… my son lost on my trip to New York. The man behind him with the missing poster asks if I recognize the sweet little boy. All I reply with is tears.