all it really took was a tune and a swivel of my heel looking for my glasses to catch his attention..
He would always find me in supermarkets and it was only one time he greeted my dad first saying thank you for your service and he’s like “heeeyyy bud how old are you now?” Like a 12 year old he used to buy beer for.
And that was the plaid and wellies day with the trucker hat that knew I’d be destined for North Carolina as much as South Carolina wanted me and needed me, the North needed me even more. Numbers dwindling. Only females left.
And I was the one left to lead.
He didn’t come back in conversation for 5 years sitting next to each other.
He was always like a TA or someone doing grants for the school. Community dude never mention of his job.
Rich but grew up on Appleseeds like the rest of his lot the only 2 that stayed before they knocked it down for me to take up almost 20 years later (in secret).
I’ve always known this room, you can’t tell me it’s different and what that door symbolizes.
At least the bathroom is next to my room now and not in a crawl in unfinished basement with just a shower curtain.
The boys loved that bathroom but it was creepy and the other half of the room was furnished for gaming and puzzles and a library.
My current family has never really been like that. Only seldom and I have a bookcase with its own authority to educate the brightest and youngest of minds. I could teach a kid Harvard on that bookcase, but life chooses different paths. I chose to reeducate myself instead. Instinctively keep or buy some of my own ghost work.
Life is seldom.
And today I truly live.
I slept so much
I got bored watching tv.
I remember the days I would stay in bed, turning every position with a book, squinting, glasses on or off. I never had eye drops. And now I switched it to write.
I feel what all writers are looking for at the end of the day is whatever they were searching for in books. The finite that missed out or inspired me to think further. And that goes on and on and rattles on the brain and heart and nerves until one must write it themselves. Just works out that way. Chest for Soul. Heavy is the Heart of Writers and I’ve met quite a few.
No cattiness either, that’s what makes it bonafide.
petrichor - archive 