I wish I could finish what I’m writing today; usually I’m content to just write without a constructive end but today I feel the bricks falling and the temperature rising and I know that we must get out of the house. Sometimes I wish that I could erase my own maturity, so that I still saw secret portals hidden beneath the roots of trees. Is there a spell we can use to unlock this in ourselves? Or do we have to wait until we’re very old and start seeing the world how it really is again? When I was a girl I sometimes felt so lost that the only place that felt like home was underneath a big weeping willow in my backyard. Xander calls them “fountain trees”. I remember sitting beneath it and just watching the sky and sun flicker in between the cascading green limbs. I loved the way the tree rustled; ebbing and flowing in the breeze. We all sometimes want to go back there, don’t we? Back to where a day was spent on a blanket under a tree, when numbers were only infinity and didn’t clog our heads with worry. We knew the truth about money, then: it’s only a bunch of rattling bits of metal, meaningless in its abstraction.
Goodness, what is this day? I get this way when Gary goes out of town. I want to rest my head on someone’s shoulder. I want to sit in a field of Ohio wildflowers and watch grasshoppers. I want to let butterflies and ladybugs crawl all over me until they find my hair, and I want them to nest there. It’s like a gentle tug at my heart; I’m remember the long yellow-honey summer days when I was thirteen and all I did was walk around town, drink iced coffee, and wait for the phone to ring.