Legacy

I remember the first time I felt like an adult.
It was when I bought full-sized trash bags.
I was 34 years old.
I used to use the grocery store plastic bags instead.
Colorado criminalized the use of them.
I now smuggle plastic bags over state lines from Nebraska.
Borders aren’t real.

“Why am I associating adulthood with legacy?”
I asked my therapist earlier in the week.
She said we would continue connecting the dots.
I’m scheduled weekly for the foreseeable future.
I must be a severe case.
Lots to unlearn.

I’m almost 40 now.
“Over the hill,” they say.
Or said.
Not sure if people still say this.
We’re breaking the generational cycles of trauma.

I’m going to die.
But when?

I want my physical body to be eaten by compost worms.
And I want my ideas and my stories to live forever.
I know that’s likely not going to happen.
But I can still dream.

After a couple generations, most of us are forgotten.
Even rulers and famous people disappear from our memories.
I know I was taught about a lot of them.
But I can’t remember who they are.
Or were.

I should remember my history, so I don’t repeat it.
But I also want to focus on this current moment.
Focus on my breathing.
I inhale.
I exhale.
My presence.
A present.

My breath.
A lifeforce.
Of the planet.
By the planet.
For the planet.
A reciprocal gift.
Connected by a collective breath.
Like at the LaRussell concert.
In Chicago.
On Friday, August 1, 2025.
Amongst friends.
My community.

Two clients told me yesterday that they’re running out of money.
They can’t keep me on like they have been.
Survival.
Creating economies.
Sustaining and stimulating them too.
They’re just numbers.
We assign the value.

Is this freeing me to do something different?
Something I actually want to do.
A dream.
Writing.
Or talking too.
My barber said I’m a good talker.

Do I go all in on the podcast?
Do I go all in on writing this book?
Do I go find more bookkeeping/payroll/HR clients?
So many possibilities.
So many directions.
How do I choose just one?

I am all the things.
I suppose I can do it all.
Because I have been.
Risk.
What’s my tolerance?

I’m sober from alcohol now.
I never really liked drinking anyway.
I feel much clearer headed.
Still fighting off the intrusive thoughts though.
My midlife crisis.

I think about death a lot.
But I’m not suicidal.
Never really have been.
The pain has always been just temporary.
Fleeting turbulence.

Phoebe is turning 13 in a couple of weeks.
I found a turd outside the litter box today.
Probably just a dangler.

Did you know that you have to be 45 to be screened for colon cancer in order for insurance to pay for it?
That’s what my doctor said.
Free Luigi.

More and more young people are dying.
From gun violence.
And that’s just one sickness.
My nieces are doing lockdown drills.
The same as I did.
They’re scared of intruders.
The same as I was.
This is not normal.
But I’m old enough now to understand.
Even though I’m still young too.
Youthful at the very least.

There was a shooting on an Army base a few weeks ago.
Not sure if anyone died.
That’s how normalized violence is here.
I’m numb to the horrors.
A cry for help.
Sounds of silence.

Evidently, Bibi is now claiming all of Gaza.
Fuck him.
“Death, death to the IDF,” they sing.
I harmonize.
My words as weapons.
Puncturing holes in arguments deeper than a bullet ever could.

Free Palestine.
Free Congo.
Free Sudan.
Free all oppressed people.
It’s really that simple.
Peace exists only sometimes in my dreams.

The street racing keeps me up at night.
So I moved to the back bedroom.
Quieter.
Darker.
One of the cars has a muffler that sounds like gunshots.
Reminders of violence everywhere.

Like the armed security guard at the grocery store.
Like the National Guard deployed in DC and LA.
Like the uniformed police officers protecting and serving.
Their masters.
They’re masters.
And there’s more to come.

Am I creating my own suffering?
Sometimes I wonder.
I audibly repeat to myself.
This got me in trouble in fifth grade.
And again at church youth group.
And in boy scouts too.

Using my voice.
Expressing my values.
Sharing my love.
Making people laugh.
Advocating for justice.
Verbal processing.
On the record.
And always a perceived threat.

I’m not a threat to myself or others.
Only to systems.
Which I’ve been told might be more dangerous.
I know I’m powerful.
But dangerous?
Nah, you’ve got the wrong guy.
I might not be innocent.
But I’m definitely not guilty.
Release me and allow me to fly.

Safe, smooth, and skyward.
Soaring like I did in my childhood dreams.
I ascend.
My legacy below me.
Producing beautiful blooms.
From the seeds that I’ve planted.
In the same earth.
Where I bury my trash.

-David Kugler