Saturday, February 5, 2011

Turbulence. In some ways, it's a comfort--the outside world, the air holding this plane, feels just as crazy as I do.

When I called Becky, she was in full take-charge mode, while I was trying not to fall into pieces. I guess that's what people do. They act first, do what needs to be done, and feel it all crash on them later.

I think about those years, my father swinging in and out of our lives, my mother steady, standing at the kitchen counter shelling peas after a day of work, and then going out in the evenings to weed the garden. I think about her sitting on the porch when my father was home, sipping a beer and watching the evening settle like moths around us, winged and feathered.

The plane shudders and bucks a little. Juice sloshes in my cup.

The memories arrive like postcards. I want to write on the back of each one, save it safe in a drawer.

I want more.

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