Two weeks later, my last entry looks like the shell of a barn in the dusk in a rear-view mirror. The blue’s gone gray and I’m miles from there.
My father used to say that as a kid on the farm during the Depression, summer seemed an eternity to him. But nowadays, perhaps due to the absence of gravity and dust, two weeks in cyberspace seems longer. Or maybe it’s the abundance of manure — our need to say something, even and especially when nothing is sure.
If childhood frames us, the myth of mine is as ripe as a star. Never lonely, yet ever alone. Searching, yes, and finding, always, the sweet melancholy of more.
Our neighbor to the north had Santa Rosa plums. There, among trunks and limbs like gnarled old men and the ancient rasp of lizards’ breath, I learned the art of sparrowsong. I know, because the little birds answered me.
Thus was I formed.
And oh, how I loved my mother’s plum jelly.