The house is empty, suddenly, growing in every direction with newfound space, like a deep breath, like you live in a lung. You walk around the countless rooms, wonder how many times over your Manhattan shoebox could fit within these square feet, and the answer is staggering. I bring in barrels of tomatoes, cut them up for preserving, put them in jars for the long winter. The late summer sun beams its dry heat into my cold chest, you begin to dream of sabbaticals, begin to think that maybe the answer was buried here somewhere all along. When you tell her you could live in a shed in the woods, she doesn't believe you, but she's never seen the way your eyes light up in these mountains, has never heard you laugh in a hundred miles of silence.
He says what'll it be: Kenya, Tokyo, next door? and you remember the world still lies at the tip of our fingers, at the other end of an airplane ticket, I said once the Road is life and I know know I meant it.
I only have to make you believe it.
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