(no subject)
When it rains on weekday mornings I drive past the corner diner with it's big red sign. The only time I want to be there. When it's raining. Like the stories we wrote in October and read aloud on that porch that, probably still, smells like hot wicker. It was raining then too. And the thunder crashed at the right part in the story, when it's raining so hard and the car crashes through the windows, masked by the roaring rain. That was nice. And my voice was shaking. And then my legs, later in the garden atop large rocks. On tip toes. We were braver then, I think. That time this year your belly will be swollen. And he'll be stone deaf. And cigarettes will be so last year. The rain never seems to last long enough.
He's calling again, about muffins, again. I walk through this giant empty house and imagine it full. Knowing well that a person in every room wont even be close. Too much space for us little ones. How different it is from winter when we could lie in different rooms and hear each other breathe. Footsteps on the stairs woke us. The garage door sounded like a train in the backyard. Not 13 blankets, 6 doors and 2 double bolts could hide our secrets. Now this. Now you don't even call. And the only secrets we know are those of the neighbors. They lend us wrenches. Apologize at the fence for their too-fast, too-close acquaintances. We smile. We get into cars when it rains. We hide in our castles. We try to fill these rooms. And there's no yard or garden and no garage. No room for our wobbly unicycle cues. I don't even know if I like muffins.
He's calling again, about muffins, again. I walk through this giant empty house and imagine it full. Knowing well that a person in every room wont even be close. Too much space for us little ones. How different it is from winter when we could lie in different rooms and hear each other breathe. Footsteps on the stairs woke us. The garage door sounded like a train in the backyard. Not 13 blankets, 6 doors and 2 double bolts could hide our secrets. Now this. Now you don't even call. And the only secrets we know are those of the neighbors. They lend us wrenches. Apologize at the fence for their too-fast, too-close acquaintances. We smile. We get into cars when it rains. We hide in our castles. We try to fill these rooms. And there's no yard or garden and no garage. No room for our wobbly unicycle cues. I don't even know if I like muffins.