Hindsight   I lost my journal once, maybe in an airport or on a train, back when I wrote my self, rejected every other way. I had consulted fortune   tellers, written it down. I’d scribbled in tents high on mountains, distant beaches . . . recorded courtships, failures, theories of God — it all made no sense.   Decades passed. And then my journal came back, dissected, sender unknown — each page annotated, densely edited, everything made right and correct.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont May 2015