Country roads back East, clouds threatening to meet. I can’t tell you how to get there, but I know each turn. Jim explains the meaning of objects in his garage: the cheap, red bow hung on the wall is the first he laid on his dad’s grave. He looks more and more like him each time we go back, the way he wears his pants high, how he cuts his meat and chews.
We back into the driveway and stay two hours, each time. I feel the desire to leave when I am there, and the loss each time I do. The country roads rub it off.
I take the week off from writing. I want to soak up the change in routine that comes with vacation, take in all there is from a visit back home. I think I’ve found myself in an eddy with this blogging, going round and round: like maybe I should be doing something else. I recognize three people on the plane and place them in different parts of my life; none recognize me. I see another in the hardware store this morning, he has bad skin and looks like he could be hiding something. It was just then I was thinking I’d stop doing this, then I saw him.
I read about all the ways you can improve the appearance of your blog, and admire the examples from the guy with the eyepatch who works for WordPress. It’s any number of tempting things I see in a catalog and consider for a moment, but know I’ll never do. I’ve wasted enough time already.
The clouds are different now and the kids have gone with the dog while the sun is out. I take this down because I’ve committed myself to it. It doesn’t have to be good, I just need to do it.