The Unseen as Angels do Entertain

If you don’t know your own strength — then how the hell am I supposed to carve out time to teach it to you? Every single child that lands on my desk, fresh outta high school, without the spine to critically think or question — I’m looking straight at you, Peggy Sue. Yes, you. Sitting under your late husband’s mantle clock, wearing a ring from a man you never married, painting empathy onto beige walls that never raised a voice. Where are the men? Where are the builders? These women out here are raising fresh-scented, screen-scrolled, softened mules — legs hairless, hands clean, souls nowhere near the grit of the ground. No callouses. No timber in their tone. Just beard-filtered boys playing Dungeons & Dragons in dungeons they built in their mother's basements. And I’m out here — Sitting still. Scent on the wind. Waiting. Waiting for the rugged ones. The ones with resolve in their step and thunder in their decisions. For the de-masculated to resurrect and remind me what it feels like to be sat down in the presence of strength. Do you exist? Can you hear me? I’m not asking. I’m summoning. So if you’re out there, come find me — and sit me down hard. The Waiting Young