Confession of Sin

Bless me Muskrat for I have sinned. It has been 56 days since my last blog.

Dear Muskrat,
I have moved into a new environment, new life, new home, new everything. I am afraid. Moving is hard and it is my least favorite thing to do. The only times I have moved was because I had to, it was not a choice & I am left with that sour taste in my mouth of trauma that happened long long ago. But none the less, it had to happen. I sit this morning after a long constitutional, the purposeless walk kind, not the washroom kind, on the 3rd story of an old Victorian home surrounded by all manor of memory, visual, olfactory & auditory delights. The dog's tail is gently swishing against the wall and the wood floor as the sound of his rhythmic panting due to our walk starts to fade, booze fueled snores and labored sleep come from the bedroom and I am reminded of tidbits from last night that either made steam shoot out of my ears or made feel whole & loved. Cars, bicyclists, junkies and church goers all pass beneath me sitting on the fire escape. They do not know I am here but I watch as the priest sneaks out the back door of St. Michael's Episcopal Church at 9:45am to smoke a Newport, I can see the green and gold pack stand out against his black robes and dark skin, before he calls his parishioners to make a joyful noise promptly at 10. I watch as the young Caribbean man with dreadlocks ducks into a hole {an alley with no exit} only to have a hopper {young drug dealer} come running down the sidewalk to meet him and make the hand off. I hear motorcycles roll by on their way to the Hell's Angles Clubhouse down the next alley way where any neighborhood drug dealer can re-up his or her supply. I say hi to the kids on skateboards & bicycles as they ride down to foofy cafes and stores with philosophies on the next block over. I see the Sunday bonnets on plump old ladies and can hear church bells ring at 9, 9:30, 10 & 10:30 from all over the neighborhood. The baptists have the loudest bell, but their church is the oldest and biggest. I am so inspired by all of the god, the jesus, the stained glass I am surrounded by. Yet I am not a believer, I don't have plans to become one. But rather than ramble on and on and on I want to show you what I see every Sunday morning, on my purposeless walk, and absolve myself of my sins. How many 'Our Fathers' and 'Hail Mary' prayers will get me off the hook?
Most sincerely yours,

The Marbled Polecat know as Mink {who now lives in the beautiful red building, but still considers home a concept, not a place}