honey yellow

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.

 

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4 thoughts on “honey yellow

  1. I don’t know if we can unlock our innocent creativity—mature creativity is built from the same stuff, but also contains assumption…

    Enjoy your (wistful) day.

    I misread the title of the post as “Honesty Yellow.”

  2. I think we’re kind of lucky as writers, don’t you? We get to keep peeking through the keyhole to that quiet, magical time. We get to put our hands in the wet cement and visit…

"... all my lovers were there with me, all my past and futures."

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