I looked at a lot more than bees in those days - sunflowers, rivers, starlight on frozen gravel, snowflakes falling on pine trees, flickering snake tongues and empty snake skins, and graves.
I wake and I take my waking slow.
So there is no in-between, who knew.
We make plans for vacation week - trips to Vermont, trips to stores with "witchcraft" in their name, swimming at the D.A.R.
We talk while he grills, Greek music playing low in the background, I admire his tomatoes and eggplant, he gripes about rabbits and chipmunks, all these years and still we circle the only topic either one of us cares about.
Finally my twenties come into focus, what a decade.
Nothing lasts but a lot lingers.
There are stories we could tell but don't - have I written that before?
D. invites me to teach a writing workshop and I pass, he asks why and I can only shrug, it's what it is now.
Rain falls in the Adirondacks.
A distance that one is allowed, any practice that does not honor it is not my practice.
Getting off on knowing the other is getting off.
I've only had a handful of shoes in my life that I've truly felt comfortable in, and this pair is one of them.
What I dream about now - invisible paths that open in dialogue with others, knowing which ones to take and which to leave to others.
Chrisoula kisses me while I load the car with olives and feta from Montreal, calls me her "old man," om shanti shanti shanti.
Knowledge is about fitting into one's living more than having this or that piece of information.
And so the fairs begin, and so the summer begins its slow fade into our shared death.
There are no right enemies.
Trucks grinding coming down Route Nine, always my life has included a road that suggests getting away.
Chunks of rose quartz in an early twentieth-century canning jar, who made me this way, why did they make me.