This whole thing is closer to code than not. Each sentence a veil drawn over what it would like to reveal. Not a dance, not a tease. More like the stuttering of talk therapy.
I can't tell if the brown shape by the road is a still flicker or a chunk of sod. Yesterday we cut the first bunch of lilac for the mantle. At the roots, hundreds of new bushes I can't bring myself to ruin. Jeremiah yanked by hand some stringy rhubarb to put in water. It's beautiful, he said. And nobody argued.
A thunderstorm passed last night. First of the season to fit the predictable mold. Clouds bunching at supper time, a fast pounding rain, thunder like ordnance right above the house. Yet after, there was no rainbow. And I was sad - what else can I say - how else can I say it.
And I still haven't quite figured out when to stop writing. This writing, this way. I feel like a hiker on the verge of a new trail. Who wants to lighten his load. You can't help but go forward. It's who you walk with and what you carry that you can help.
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