My youngest is 11.

I’m tired of writing facts. This is going on. That is going on. I want to write dapple and splinters of silverfish at my feet when the waters come in.

bubbles of joy and overwhelm that fizzle and steam and lift, depending on the day.

the rush of the heart against the ribcage when the tears rise, a wild irrational thrust towards escape

cold fingers typing, calloused hands barely registering on touch screens these days. i may as well have lifeless clay in digit form. but then again, i do not. there is life in this clay, and i’m in reformation mode again.

(at times anyways, because sometimes i am also too much with my couch)

the heartbreak of november is heavy with me. the light itself brings me to tears. the cry of the newly red leaf, the flutter of the gold, as they fall, food for my next year’s garden.

i feel that veil is thin, yes, and it is the grey boundaries between past and future in which i feel myself becoming a flock of birds. the neither here nor there, an inability to be present for it.

clay, sodden ground, mud and how much value do i put on a clean shoe anyhow?

there is so much going on, and nothing. and i love you, and i’ll see you soon.


3 thoughts on “My youngest is 11.”

  1. Love this. I’m so there with you my friend. I’m re-reading Thomas Hardy’s Return of the Native. I do this almost every November and have done so since I was about 19. It’s the words, the lovely words, that some how feed my achy November soul, especially books 1,2,and 6. If you have any interest at all, read at least the first three chapters. It’s set in England, of course, but it looks, smells, feels so much like my present corner of the world.

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