Fragments of Dreams

broken glasses show
a hundred lesser faces, so
my rags of heart can like, wish, and adore,
but after one such love, can love no more.
― John Donne

How would this look on a resume? Criminal psychologist, working as detective –conflicted.

I smile grimly because this kind of cynicism always contains a germ of truth.

My mind continues to play at the game, running out the bitter thread.

Unable to form a relationship with his female partner, even though they’re attracted to each other—still mourning his dead wife who visits him nights.

I frown, and pound my clenched fist to my forehead, shutting my eyes tightly to ward off picturing her—but that’s the problem in a nutshell.

I speak to my wife even though she’s dead.

We talk late at nights and she helps me cope.

I admit; I’m conflicted. I drink too much—maybe that’s the Irish in me.

I’m crazy, mixed up —a detective with a background in criminal psychology, a seminary dropout, and ex-altar boy who still reads Latin…

And I still pray for the dead even though I know it’s theologically iffy – and talk to my wife in purgatory even though I know it’s wrong.

“Ah, Martin—the good ones always cause me problems.”

I've gone back to the college to meet with my mentor. Actually, I've gone back a lot lately.

“That’d be true Father, if I were still one of your seminarians.”

“One of my favorite seminarians,” the old priest chides, “but you’re still my favorite, and probably will be till the day I die.”

I clap his back affectionately as we walk through the Hart House courtyard.

I deliberately arranged this meeting away from the seminary—on neutral ground, I suppose.

I can’t concentrate with a flood of memories connected with St. Augustine’s.

Can’t concentrate with a flood of memories connected to my wife.

It’s funny now, reflecting on how Breton recruited me—not to the priesthood per se, but he tempted me instead with the lure of being a lay theologian.

“You can have the good life, Martin—don’t sell yourself short.”

I have no idea what he saw in me, although I found out later he was the archdiocesan exorcist; okay perhaps, I shouldn’t go there since it raises doubts concerning the wisdom of revealing my spiritual malaise to him at all.

It’s a cold fall day and the wind whips around us. Instinctively, I look to the clouds above, where heaven’s said to be, and smile inwardly.

What’s he going to do, exorcize me?

And then I sober. Maybe he should.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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