The laughter seems so far away

Yet, perhaps it had been there, leaping across the room, a drink, a smile,

Here, there , again like fireworks

We slept on the pull out sofa

We fought each other for blankets

In the cold rec room with the wet bar that housed your records

The needle, riding vinyls grooves all the way round

It’s your thing, do what you wanna do

Till way, way late

“Dad, you gotta go to bed”, your daughter would say

And you would, and we would

Huddle body on body warmth

Together, taking for granted

Every single second, every single one

It’s a long way. A long long way. As if I had not heard him the first time. As if this is something new, something not one of us had thought of before. However, it was still the truth. And even a prentioud narcissistic bastard is still eligible to be influenced by the truth in occasion. Though, arguably, for all in attendance it was agreed upon in unanimous fashion that this was indeed the first time truth had smiled on him for as long as anyone could remember. No fucking shit, Sherlock Brian said. Beads if sweat rolling into his eyes staining them bloodshot red. His hair blowing from the sides of each of his temples, straight up like horns, and I’ll I could hear was the baseline, bow now an now bat an now now now, wha wha whaaa wha wha wha, oh yah! Some people say my love cannot be true, please believe me, my love, and I’ll show you – Black Sabbath NIB – and fuck, if this wasn’t a moment for a little Ozzy, I had no idea what that moment would be. 32 miles, Sandra said, looking at the map folded out before her on the boulder, some glacial moraine had left behind 10,000 years ago. 32 miles, it can’t be, he said. That’s too far. Too far compared to what?

You been running from it boy. Ya, you have. Probably your whole damn life. You leaving it. Your gift. Out in the rain. Getting soggy as shit. Eaten by the fucking creature that lives under the porch. Soft and rotten as old tomatoes. Your getting stomped into the earth. And you don’t care. And you don’t fight. As the foot is on your throat.

At nighttime he wonders. Wonders about those decisions. To stay, to leave, to do nothing. He thinks about it staring at the nights sky, which in the big city, never becomes fully black. The tree branches mapping their complex simplicity like charcoal capillaries against the infinite heart beating blue everyday. He wonders about the pretty women he knew and the not so pretty women and where are they now and what if…And how he left, and how they left, and how it never started despite the all the lightening and dry brush. He wonders about the self sabotage and delusions of grandeur. About the doubt and insecurity he sore like a second skin till he somehow shed it, Till he wriggled out leaving it behind like a fossil that may be found 1000 years from know, and that they will ponder the why, like he does on the nights that are never really go dark.

It the easiest answer. Complicated, it is not. The one so simple it defies logic how you not think of it. in fact, you probably wouldn’t recognize it if it walked right up and kissed you in the nose. There it is. Right before your eyes. Ripe for the seizing. The fuck are you waiting for? Go get it!

You feel it at the back of your mind. It takes shape slow and exact. A form, a feeling. Almost imperceptible but, yet, unmistakably there. Hard to articulate exactly. A scent, that you know. That you have worn, or that has worn you. That you can’t quite place. It’s familiarity just out of reach. And when it’s felt, your mind goes to work, filling in the gaps with gold and sunshine. You feel and your mind says you are married to a women that loves you. It breezes across your unrelated thought uninvited in the middle of the day and your mind says you have beautiful children to love. It tingles against your forehead, cold, fleeting, unreal as the first drop of rain and you mind says healthy, employed, gold, sunshine. And the second hand moves and another hour begins, and you wait for the gap, and the fill, and wonder without if you will get to really know it. If one day you’ll see the edges, if one day you’ll see it’s face, it’s shadow, it’s heart, understand it’s intent.

He could not mistake her. Even in the dark. Halfway down the block. Even with the torque pulled low on her ears, hiding her hair, the color of perfect midnight. Hey, he said, perhaps a little too eager. Hey, you she said turning quickly, her long wool coat twirling away from her knees. It feels like a hundred years since I have seen you. At least, she says. Are you good? Yeah, I am good she says I, she starts, a smile faultline appearing across her face. Thin at first, just the ends of the lips starting to stretch, then wider, with teeth and dimples and wrinkles around the eyes. What? What is it? I retired she says.

The plant grew in the heat that made grown men weep. The heat that singed eyebrows and boiled ones kidneys. But still, here it was, green-leafed, thick stalked, thriving in this sandy oven of hell, not another plant growing for as far as the eye can see. How long has it been here? Where did it come from? How is it possible she wondered? After taking a picture with her phone, she took a sip of water. The tepid liquid coated her tongue and slide down the back of her throat. She Texted the image to her Daughter, aware it was 4am in Kalamazoo. Aware, The image looked unremarkable, a blotch of green on a sandy brown background. She failed to capture its exquisite presence. It’s shocking guile to grow In this place of all places; Unashamed and unrelenting. Damn, what the world thought.

Like giant capillaries he thought. A word surprising him as it appeared in his mind. Pleasing him as he moved his lips to form around it. Yes, no doubt about it, the trees now leafless, turning to shadows, hundreds and thousands of tiny branches, woven, imprinted against the against the cold evening sky, barren and gray, as the sun slipped below the horizon looked like capillaries. He thought, perhaps, if he ever learned to paint, that this is what he would capture: miles of fresh naked bark etched like scars and memories, each with their own stories of triumph and loss, swaying soft in the wind, whispering – shhhh, shhhh, shhhh – everything will be OK.

Hey M, what can I assist with? Call Jocelyn. Calling Jocelyn. The numbers appeared in large yellow font on the screen in front of him. The boys icon of a telephone ringing, in green, beside the digits. The familiar old school ring played over the car stereo. Bruce Springsteen’s Cover Me momentarily paused. Detecting the first drops of rain on the vehicles windshield, M. Sent the windshield wipers back and forth, once. One ring, three rings, five – hey M. Stop calling. The digits disappeared from the screen. The icon for EStreet radio appeared back on the screen. Sirius radio’s 24/7, nothing but Springsteen station. It began to rain harder, M. Commanded the wipers at a more urgent pace. Where are you? He said, out loud as if posing the question to his make believe passengers. Hey M, call Jocelyn. The digits reappeared. The sound of phone ringing filled the cabin. Four rings, five rings – hi, you’ve reached Jocelyn Cooper, thank you for calling. I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a brief voice message and I will be sure to phone you right back. Hey asweetheart, it’s Dad, I have left you numerous messages. Please call me. I am worried about you. He watched the drops splatter, wriggle up the wind shield, like sperm in a frantic race to the roof, before being cut down by the wipers blades. Stay left, said M. Pausing Dancing in the dark. The large green sign that hung over the highway said Seattle 712KM. The trees turned to silhouettes as the sun slipped beneath the horizon. Soon it was to be night again. He will need more gas. More coffee. He tried to think of the last time he ate. Stared at the unending broken white lines zipping past as if they had the answer to divine. Hey M, What can I assist you with. Am I loosing my mind? I am sorry I cannot assist you with that right now. What is Cheeseburger, what is McDonalds, what is Demoine. I’ll take crappy road trip food for 300 Alex.