Truth be told

My dad disliked one thing:  to be lied to.  He hated it. Whenever I have tried to pass off one itty bitty teensy weensy ‘fib’, I might as well have committed suicide on the spot and gone straight to hell.  It never worked with him.

Not surprising, lies make me really unhappy.  When Dad kicked off I inherited his uncanny ability to see through them.  Sometimes a curse, in the end a gift.  I’ve come to see it as my Dad protecting me.

The truth is  buoyant, it wears a life jacket. To test this: Take one for a permanent swimming lesson, weigh it down with concrete shoes.  Squeeze truth into a small trunk. Wrap chains around that and lock it up tight.  Give it a good heave into a deep body of water, wipe your hands and go for a beer.

When you least expect it a package of quiet understanding arrives at your door.  Open it up and out here comes the truth.   “Hey,” Truth whispers from under the dust of time gone by, “look”. Then truth disappears into vapor finding its way into your soul where it plans to stay forever.

Mark Twain and truth

 

 

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