Erase

45 hours in a blip on the map. The roads are winding, you couldn't find your way if your life depended on it, until you pass the church and the yellow house that used to be the country store. We biked there as kids to buy ice cream, do you remember? We stick together in all the pictures, half dressed, my white eyebrows beaming into the frame and her mouth in a pout. The house looked so different then, but the door frame marked with years of growing children remains. 

We sit with bare feet in the grass, stare at the growing vegetables and discuss life. We take slow but determined walks to the lake, brace against the chill of the water and laugh at its perfection. Drink more wine, smoke, talk, rinse, repeat. Let the summer sun sink into the back of my spine. My shoulders turn brown. For 45 hours there is nothing else, no one else to be. I breathe deep breaths and find everything rearranging itself around me. 

I will step out of this current. And everything will be brand new.