Deeper into the Dolmen

A lot depends on how you define magic. It rains and then it doesn't. What works?

What helps?

We drive to Vermont together with coffee, visiting town centers where we hung out pre-kids. Farms using old tires to hold tarps down against loose hay. At midnight the groundhogs eat apples in tall grass in moonlight.

Biology is a frame! Chrisoula forwards an article on how to sleep better, upshot, take some melatonin. My legs below the knee now remind me of my father's legs: skinny, the calf bone arching like a poorly-made bow. Wading through shallows at Upper Highland Lake, disturbing turtles, giving loon nests a wide berth.

Eggs and sausage drenched in maple syrup. Coffee stains. At an early juncture Bob Dylan lyrics defined a lot of how I thought about relationships. Also, what do you not want to hear?

We lift lanterns, lower our heads, we go deeper into the dolmen to see if anybody is awake. There is always so much sorrow when we try to step into meetings that are not ordained by love.

We drank whiskey in a little pub near Ballyvaughan Bay, talking about the loneliness of Hank Williams, Woody Guthrie's courage facing his long interment and illness, and Bob Dylan's comment about links in a chain. I have daughters now, now I have a son.

So many years ago, all those loose Benzedrine tablets bouncing around the Rambler's carpeted floor, a sense that something wasn't working and it was our job to fix it, and the life that followed, this one.