Years ago, my friend Brad, who worked before I did, said something about the gravity of weekends, how they take on larger significance when all week is work. Now, summer, every day holds that weight. Train horn. Starlings. Seeds. I feel pressure to see something, to have pages, parties. I see the same people each day, but I want them to be different people.
For the second time in my life, the lock on my front door has broken. I can lock it from the inside, but not out. I can enter, but cannot leave. Why do I need to be in? What is saying, lock your doors and wait for me?
I am waiting for a mountain. I am waiting for a lake. I am growing my hair out again. I am writing on the back pages of my notebook, the ones that already have writing on the opposite side, ink pushing through the paper. You must start at the end, and flip forward if you wish to read it.
I am standing at the window and waiting for snow.
There is a girl I have seen walk the sidewalks of this town: twelve or thirteen, freckles, skinny, glasses. She is practicing a sexy, swaying walk, singing to herself. I wish I could stop her, hold her hands, and say: Wait. You have the rest of your life for that. Here, climb this tree with me.
Rain clouds. Porch light. Weeds.
I wait for a daughter. I would tell her: Don't be afraid. Your skeleton is a hundred times stronger. Men can stand quick, sharp pain. True. But you, you and I were made for outlasting lasting pain.
