Writing Prompt - The Hermit's Song

"Write a 650 word story about a hermit that should include a carrot. Also use the sentence 'I will remember this.' ---- "How bout them transparent dangling carrots..." Over and over, it went. The song looped and he swore that all of his thoughts from now on would be to the melody of this song. He had to chuckle. He had finally "put his blasted money where his mouth was”, and like a petulant, self-righteous child, had stormed out of his work, his marriage, and his family, to "gather his thoughts for a while." He had come here to the cave - a freaking cave of all places! - and now, instead of the oceans of meditative peace, and the crystal clear clarity of vision he had been promised, all he could do was hum along. The books on yoga sold a different story, they told of feelings of indescribable peace and oneness, of visions of gods and saints, and a totally transformed personality. But no, all the new hermit could manage to conjure up were the lyrics to a pseudo-spiritual 90's pop song. It used to play on the radio all the time, and longings for things that were not part of his life, things like pilgrimages, and prayers, and incense, would consume him. "How bout me enjoying the moment for once..." You really going to go up to that blasted cave on the north coast? What happened, you ain't fraid snake or what? The words had poured out of her in a constant stream of venom, baby's cries ignored for a bit as she let him know about the plan he had whispered over breakfast. You going to sit up there for a week? Pretend you are some kind of damn Hindu fool and what? I just supposed to stay here and mind baby and scratch my tail? Look man, I really don't know why I signed up for this, yes. Yet he sat, eyes closed, just like the book said, and breathed in and out, and tried to suck the ocean air as far down as possible into his lungs. You go ahead, take a week off of work and see what your boys at the quarry have to say when they find out you spent it staring at a blasted cave wall by the beach with sea cockroaches climbing up your bamsee. Go ahead, you go and “take your retreat” and “do your meditation.” I will remember this. "How bout how good it feels to finally forgive you..." He was always like this, that's what his mother used to say. The other boys and them would go down to the park to kick ball or climb trees, but this child of hers would rather hide behind in the garden by himself doing god knows what. All day long by himself. What kind of thing was that? The worst thing she ever did was bring home that book on yoga her friend had given her. After that it was just nagging to let him go down by himself to the Hindu temple down the road and watch the statues. All them boys used to play in the park and you like one little hen used to stay in the garden. The laughed when the teacher suggested it might be because of some “early childhood trauma” or some shit like that. Yes, like if her son was the only one who used to take some kind of licks at home. Show me all them other little boys legs and bamsee and I'm sure you will see belt mark after belt mark. But they not here crying about no trauma, or sitting under no trees in the garden with their eyes closed. No! They out there kicking ball and watching girls pass the road! The new hermit breathed in and breathed out. Guilt, like one of the waves, washed over his mind. No, no, no. I had to come here, he thought. For their own good, he thought. Wife's voice and baby's tears and mother's cussing floated over into the cave and mixed with that song, that silly song that played again and again and again. Don't come back home, she said. I will remember this, she said. The hermit sighed, and then sang, “Thank you nothingness, thank you clarity. Thank you, thank you, silence.”