Destination

There's a picture of their kids, all lined up in someone's backyard, everyone smiling - it's summer - and all I can think of is how there's a special kind of grass in the desert suburbia where I grew up; when I look at the picture I can feel it between my toes. I hear late night sprinklers, feel the apricot sun on my skin, I remember just how it felt to live a life in that space and it sits in my heart without remorse. Sometimes I wonder if everyone thinks so much about their memories.

The typewriter creaked today when I stroked it. It didn't resist, but the prose was not easy work, all missteps and smudges, words stumbling upon each other and childish turns of phrase. The point is, it still moved when I touched it. The point is, there are still words left to write, stories left to tell that I haven't discovered yet, there is work left to be done but the point is if you think it's worth doing, the treasures that lie on the other side
are
all
yours.