Sorrow reigns blue
Over 3,000 miles, so far, 2 weeks. My skin is browner than it's been since I was young; my hair is so light.
We spent a couple of days at my parents house. The quarry water finally warm, not wanting to leave it, playing tennis and tipping backwards on chairs. I bought Sam a book and we left in rain. It was the last rain we saw for two weeks.
Jamestown North Dakota. Kate was hiding under her bed long before we arrived. She drew us pictures of turtles and I built her a shelf for her toys while she handed me nails and screws.
We drove until the middle of Montana. There was a man near the border who had been biking since Michigan in May. He didn't want to talk. We camped by railroad tracks and spent the night waking to thunder in our chests. Avoided, barely, bears in Glacier.
In Idaho the weight of the trees and water struck me hard. I laid on rocks, crying. Distance and space overwhelming. The rest of the days, beauty moved me the same, to the point of tears and staring and closing my eyes, and opening them, and closing my eyes and opening them. For the most part I sat silent, moving. There are no words for it. Even now, in this ugliness, there is not movement toward words. These are coming from journaled words, and the rest are tripping in hallways miles from here.
In Washington we found water to swim in, lakes surrounded by trees and nothing else, freezing, clear and dark. Goosebumps covered my skin while the sun set, ears aching. Entirely lost, spacey and confused in afternoons.
The coast, finally. And the coast for days. Bellingham, Seattle, Tacoma, the 101 all the way to Eureka. Ancient, looming sea monsters. Kids in costumes. Headache and headache and espresso (again). Waiting for the monsters to rise and shake. Kids running, laughing. My first fig. Three figs later to the center of California. The ocean makes me cry. The sun sets and my heart breaks, wide open, spilling on sand and sand and sand under a ridiculously full moon. I freeze at night.
The moon again, the middle of Oregon, reflecting in glass and casting shadows from hilltops. The middle of Oregon and back to the coast and the middle of Oregon and to the coast, zig-zagging so. Bikers. Friendly old men are the only people to talk to me, talk about how far I am from home. Food and parcheesi games on tent floors. Banana sandwich stops on hot roads. Private coves. Seafood conversations. And the moon shrinks.
Until I'm home. And don't want to be. And this is nowhere near it. So far that I'm looking down the road wondering "what's the point?" In time . . . I suppose.
We spent a couple of days at my parents house. The quarry water finally warm, not wanting to leave it, playing tennis and tipping backwards on chairs. I bought Sam a book and we left in rain. It was the last rain we saw for two weeks.
Jamestown North Dakota. Kate was hiding under her bed long before we arrived. She drew us pictures of turtles and I built her a shelf for her toys while she handed me nails and screws.
We drove until the middle of Montana. There was a man near the border who had been biking since Michigan in May. He didn't want to talk. We camped by railroad tracks and spent the night waking to thunder in our chests. Avoided, barely, bears in Glacier.
In Idaho the weight of the trees and water struck me hard. I laid on rocks, crying. Distance and space overwhelming. The rest of the days, beauty moved me the same, to the point of tears and staring and closing my eyes, and opening them, and closing my eyes and opening them. For the most part I sat silent, moving. There are no words for it. Even now, in this ugliness, there is not movement toward words. These are coming from journaled words, and the rest are tripping in hallways miles from here.
In Washington we found water to swim in, lakes surrounded by trees and nothing else, freezing, clear and dark. Goosebumps covered my skin while the sun set, ears aching. Entirely lost, spacey and confused in afternoons.
The coast, finally. And the coast for days. Bellingham, Seattle, Tacoma, the 101 all the way to Eureka. Ancient, looming sea monsters. Kids in costumes. Headache and headache and espresso (again). Waiting for the monsters to rise and shake. Kids running, laughing. My first fig. Three figs later to the center of California. The ocean makes me cry. The sun sets and my heart breaks, wide open, spilling on sand and sand and sand under a ridiculously full moon. I freeze at night.
The moon again, the middle of Oregon, reflecting in glass and casting shadows from hilltops. The middle of Oregon and back to the coast and the middle of Oregon and to the coast, zig-zagging so. Bikers. Friendly old men are the only people to talk to me, talk about how far I am from home. Food and parcheesi games on tent floors. Banana sandwich stops on hot roads. Private coves. Seafood conversations. And the moon shrinks.
Until I'm home. And don't want to be. And this is nowhere near it. So far that I'm looking down the road wondering "what's the point?" In time . . . I suppose.