The Cup and the Towel

The towel is waiting there, a bit dusty from waiting so long in the same spot, and wrinkled from the cat using it for her afternoon naps, but it is ready and will work for what I need it to do. I don't want to pick it up, much less throw it in, but the signs all point to the need to do so. The results from this small action will ripple out for years into the rest of the chapters of this crazy life, the ones that lead to the end of the story. I am not too proud to admit I am scared. I am losing what I thought was mine for much longer than it will last. The future is both empty and thick with resistance, like a heavy curtain that I have to part in order to pass through. But pass through I must because the time is now and the conditions irrefutable. I want to step back -- put it off for a few more days, weeks, months -- away from the cup that is being passed to me, to refuse to drink from my destiny. A lot of good that would do. It follows me, is always there, rising to my lips. Time to grab the towel, take a deep breath, and open wide, do the deed.