Why it feels amazing to do something about it.
There was no plane, no audience, no charter smile. In lieu of feeling validated—correct—there was a chancy wonder about, like being lost indefinitely. Boundless by a transitory doctrine, somewhere along 1988 and 2010, driven to Union, between Taylor and Jones, far away.
It’s June and I’m wondering, when will passing pay off? And yet, it felt amazing to do something about it, as though I dove into a dream of geography and curiosity and all their trimmings. Though as I tried to anatomize the last dealings back home, of Dad handing me cash and Mom wrapped in her own arms, the dog sick on the floor, the car packed, the color of the lawn, the front door open, waiting for it all to end, to linger back to calm—I could not recall a conclusion. I can hear Mom’s voice over the phone, Are you ready to come home? like she asked when I played at the neighbors years ago.
But this is the kind of playing you do when you’re trying to grow up and be young at once, and when you’re trying to do something about it. I might wake with speculation, but will later walk out the door without itinerary to any step. Streets become bright with chance. Signs suggest. Crosswalks trickle gravel bit to gravel bit, the buildings’ shadows escalate the contrast of inviting ways. It’s the going, going, going again, amazing, amazing to do something about it. It’s simply amazing.
Then step off the transfer, and I’m lost indefinitely.
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