Saturday, June 20, 2020

The Past Arrives Always

Places where no child goes. Places where no child should go but some do. Bluets where we stop mowing and the earth becomes wild. Bear tracks. How we walked in an enormous arc through old tobacco fields, talking about the Lord, the white-washed county fair buildings never coming closer. Homemade yogurt dressing for roasted lamb, the dill making us long for Greece. Our drives through the hilltowns, sharing tea with honey, and what we talk about. The past arrives always as a flavor in the present, a way the present has of organizing itself on our behalf. Hunkering on the ridge overlooking a moose hole, geese sailing across it, but nothing bigger. I, too, am lost. Near the bottom of the hill, half a dozen dandelions. Trying to remember was it yesterday or the day before we made love before the kids were up, and after cried because of all the mistakes we've made, and ways we've found to hurt each other, and yet.  

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