I sit outside in a red chair in the backyard of the house I grew up in.
Did this street get smaller, or is it me that has grown? So much has changed. I light a cigarette. I started smoking again and I wonder if you would approve.
I laugh when I remember you’re the only person who never gave me shit for anything I chose to do.
My mom told me someone on the news said more acorns in the fall means a bad winter is coming. I shiver just thinking about it. I remember the conversation you and I had about hibernating; little bears spending winter under the covers. I remember how we prayed for spring.
It’s so quiet here. The only sounds come from squirrels and birds, occasionally an unhappy dog barking somewhere in the distance. For a while I thought this place was just what I needed, but I miss the hum of the city, and four lane highways.
“We could both go to the countryside,” you told me once,
“it will help us get better.”
I thought I missed this place, this tiny house and these quiet streets. It’s warm tonight and I can smell the lake in the air. Nothing is quite how I remember it, but isn’t that how it always goes? And I wonder if you’re feeling the same disconnect with the place in which you grew up. I hope you’re not. If one of us gets better, I hope it’s you.
As I lean down to put out my cigarette, I notice it- an abundance of acorns. It’s going to be a long winter, and I know I’ll never make it here. Because this isn’t my home anymore, it never was.
Neither were you.
Once again, this is something super old. Because the end of the month is hard and my two favorite beating hearts aren’t feeling well and tomorrow is a holiday and I’m full of dread and longing. Please enjoy your turkey tomorrow. I’m thankful for you.