He says, let's talk. Says, the farm might be free. Says, here is more sunshine to put in your pocket, your dreams are good enough to come true. You google maps of the desert, google how long it would take to add a trip to Pie Town to the itinerary, google how quickly you can pack all your things into the station wagon and return to the road.
Your father wrings his hands, worried at your homelessness, worried at your solitude. Worried most, perhaps, at your joy. You understand now why it was so hard to come by when you were a child.
If you could tell that child now all the things that were to come, if you could give that child all the permission to breathe, and live, and carry joy, would she believe it?
Perhaps some things are best when they arrive
in their due time.
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