So now I go running the dirt roads every morning I can, and I walk with Kiddy around and under the hanging peach trees and then we stop at the barn and I make him stand while I brush his white smooth coat from his nose to his tail and he likes it and I say, I will be here to run with you.
I haven't thought much about writing. Nothing happened. It rained and filled up the ground. Our uncle drank himself to the hospital. We waded barefoot down the wide shale creek. The sun came and it got hot. I listened to baseball. I missed a lot. I couldn't help it.
So now I sit at my piano and feel covered in my perfect music shaped bubble because I don't have to hear or tell or remember anything but this. And I wish I wish I wish you could feel exactly what it is, this golden ageless pain that shines right on my inside that is all mine and yet not about me, because I can't say it. You I guess would have to be me to feel it and for my part I don't wish that on anyone for too long.
I got angry and bored and made my heart too nervous to write. Nothing happened. I created some drama until it was real. It was a part of me and I didn't know much without it. I broke with the wind and the concern was crippling. I looked down and up. I decided I wouldn't grow up without God.
So now I don't want to be any farther from home than the runaway trails or the river because from there I could always come back. I can still always come back. But they were home too. This, is not. Though human beings, they adapt. But we who aren't always make big deals out of things that aren't. You can see why I have to tell my head shut up just to get any sleep.