The car is in the driveway, a hundred degrees and a burning steering wheel. It smells like your youth, like back-to-school and promises yet to be fulfilled, it feels like home on your skin. He writes to ask for pictures, for stories, he tries to dig his nerves into your awareness, while you hesitate to glance at his; too many obstacles in your line of vision. The canyon is unseasonably green, inviting, the desert gives way to the whims of the universe, you coast along as best you can.
Their faces brighten your afternoon, their imaginations feed your own, 13 years you've been coming into the folds of each others creativity and the gift is not lost on you. One day you will thank them. One day a little girl will fasten herself onto printed pages for good and it will be because of them. The gift is not lost on you.
He says your life is intriguing, it seems so free, and it doesn't take much effort to see what he means. You built for yourself this playground of color, this land of adjusted rules, and for every day you've doubted your rickety sand castle, all it takes is one day of recognizing your face in the mirror to feel at peace with the crooked road you've paved.
Another birthday waits in the wings.
You greet it with open arms, at last.
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