Two months is a long time when counted in minutes and days, but much longer still when counted in moments. How many moments have I not gathered into my pockets since last we spoke, how many spring evenings and airplane tickets, long morning drives through West Virginia woods and Red Hook farewells with fireworks behind the Statue of Liberty outside a kitchen window; that the stories lie unspoken seems like a cruel twist of a vise around your already crumbling heart.
I am sorry.
The truth is I tried to stay away, tried to determine if there were other creeks where my stories could bob and weave, like leaves or boats made of bark. The truth is, I tried to stay away, thinking I had lost a magic that I seem unwilling to accept living without.
The truth is, I don't know why I go away sometimes, and I never expected you to stay.
A young dog lies at my feet, a Colorado valley lies at my feet, summer is sweltering in my every step across the American heartland, but the mountains were always cooler, the West was always quieter, I revel in silences not heard in months. It occurs to me I am still out here in search of the Pearl.
I wonder if the search is what life is.
The Pearl a mirage at the edge of the horizon.
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