Some of the days flew by so fast, others you could trap in a jar. They were on the internet or in your computer on a spinning carousel, going back as far as you could right up to the present. They moved the way old style animated films do, “motion pictures,” each pane a still. I had those stills and they were like a deck of playing cards scattered on the floor. The one with Charlotte’s face framed in the window of the school bus pulling away. Those days compiled. I saw myself in the mirror and it got worse, but maybe it’s just been a long winter. I got older. I regard myself over the hand sink and snort, slap my face with the tap water, shake it off. I walk in the mornings to scrounge up something to write, hide my soul in uncommon places, come back to the jar to see what’s left. I thought the ground was so wet it squished like a sponge, the air pungent with it. I walked Charlotte to the end of the road and turned around, to start my day. I kept seeing her pull away.