Maybe, I thought, maybe this is a turning point.
He said that everything would be better than before
He said we were on the edge of a new relation
He said he would never again cringe before his father
He said that he was going to invent full-time
He said he loved me that going into me
He said was going into the world and the sky
He said all the buckles were very firm
He said the wax was the best wax
The part that always gets lost in my stories is the good time. Yes, good time. Singular. It was a time I had all these really funny, cool girlfriends and we used to meet at one another’s houses and apartments and sometimes even out on the town. We shared a big part of our lives and I won’t forget that. Not ever.
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.