2,300 miles

The last few miles you fly down a mountainside, each twist as familiar to you as the lines on your skin. 2,300 miles to cross America, and what you'll remember most is how strange the road kill in Missouri. Armadillos and turtles all the way down. In Kentucky you met a friend for a coffee, as though it wasn't the strangest stopover. In Colorado, you drank whiskey with people who flew across the borders just to end up in the same little town as you and the two years you hadn't seen each other no longer existed. The car decides to twist and ache, its alarm ringing out as you walk away from it. You spend countless evenings trying to solve its riddles. 

And then suddenly here you are, back at the drawing board. The desert sun is warm on your skin, the evenings long and inviting. All of summer lies ahead and you have everything to win from its promises. 

You know it's a gift, you see it clear. 

Now is the time to unwrap it. 

Ohio

You leave Brooklyn in a rush, no room for tears, or maybe you've just done this before, the goodbyes become routine. You drive out of the across the Verrazano-Narrows, watching the skyline disappear in the humid haze, cursing New Jersey drivers like it's a treat. You sit in silence, watching the miles disappear behind you, you think you should be talking yourself into answers but your brain is tired. You're happy enough just watching the rolling hills pass by. 

This morning I found two four-leag clovers growing next to each other in the park near the pier. I was only hoping for one, the duo felt like a kind nudge, a little wink. Off you go, you'll be alright. 

I'll be back, and all that. 

This life was meant for living.  

Big Fish, Little Fish

Another year comes to an end, another summer stretches out before you. There’s a routine to this madness now, a delicious peace to the motions. You stand on a Red Hook street corner and say strange goodbyes into the summer sun. Go home to scrub the kitchen tiles, go home to scrub yourself out of the apartment. You keep coming back. 

There’s a comfort in your constant returns. 

Summer begins now. The road lies ahead. Pack your plants into the little station wagon and figure out the rest as you go. It’s an unexpected life. 

You wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Worm

Feel the mushroom cloud like a promise not a death sentence, see time stretch around you in a kaleidoscope instead of a straight line, what freedom. The words look the same on the page, and you appreciate their steadfast reliability when everything else swims around you. Two more sleeps in this bed, two more morning walks around the pier, one day next week the road will rise to meet me, and I'll be ready when it does. Eveyrthing is hard when you look right at it, but the thing is, summer lies ahead of you, green grass and glittering waters do not need you to be ready. The awe comes by design. 

The Starlighter 
is working. 

Moments

Things can change in the smallest of moments, in the slightest turn of events. A small bar tucked into a side street, one more drink at last call against better judgment, the acute timeline of a summer calendar setting your synapses on fire. He tries to see you again, and you wonder what can become of crumbs. 

Knowing full well that a handful of moments
can make an entire cake.  

Suburb

It'll be two thousand dollars to bring it back to looking brand new, she says over the phone, her auto body specialist waiting in the wings. You try to tell her you don't need the old station wagon to look brand new, try to tell her the scars and scuffs and patina are merely signs of a life well lived, and all you need is to repair the wounds that will make it fall apart before its time. She will not have it, says they take pride in their work and can only do perfection. 

You think it an apt metaphor but decide not to dwell on it. No good can come of reading tea leaves that tell you what you already know. 

You ask her to just take a look at the AC unit instead, blasting hot air into your heat wave drive. You envision a trek across the continent in the swelter, windows open and asphalt burning the soles of your feet. America, is everything falling apart? 

Reader, are we staying on this path for good? 

Swelter

New York swims in a heat wave, sundressed youths pop out of the earth like mushrooms. Were they only lying in wait, enduring winter, ready to spring forth at the first sign of sunburn on the avenues? You suffer, but you love New York more than ever. 

You say that every year. 

(It's true every year, too.)

The writing bar is quiet enough for a Monday, a persistent chatter piercing through your lazy hot thoughts. You wander around your manuscript, wonder in the margins, stare out the window at the ripples on the street. All of summer lies ahead of you. Today I booked a ticket and it works every time, it never doesn't work, you should know to trust it by now. You book a ticket and the world lies at your feet. 

You book a ticket, 
and all the things that are to come
are too wonderful to tell.