We are in summer, which means my heart is jumpy. On the river past Trudge's place, I watch baby trout nip the surface, darting through beams of light. You come close to losing everything but don't, learn a little, keep going. The phone ringing later than it should, that worry.
Maple trees bending in seasonal wind gusts. Buttercups bound forth beneath the crippled apple tree, effacing the ceramic Buddha sitting at its base. The story ends, the teller adjusts his coat to his shoulders, leaves town. Suddenly this crisis, I knew it was not gone for good.
Hawks circling silver clouds. The silence of the classroom when you've asked a good question. Social gravity, cultural gravity. Your place or mine was never the question, not once ever.
Iced peppermint tea at the little table by the flower garden, writing writing, knowing it is not always like this but for now it is. Kind words are never unwelcome. We plan outings and meals, we walk in long circles around the lake, we are deeper than we thought we could go, we are maybe somewhere we were never meant to be. Sushi rice with fried bananas.
The difference between a house and a home. The answer was no, it was always no. And thus, at a late stage, with a little help, I am able to name some things that for so long had to go unnamed. Adjusting, as always, to dawn.