“It won’t be long now before the unhinging of green chaos in every hill & hollow. As one step plunges thru crust up to the thigh, the other gains a trusted footing. This hobbling walk is how I live. There’s still so much to do before the thickening melt, & my cup runneth over at a dizzying pace. Who could believe this process? Who invented it? How much transformation can a human being hold before becoming something unrecognizable? There is nowhere to walk normally. There’s mud, or ice or something in between, separated by stretches of rough wood flooring, straw in places, then sugar snow. It gets easier to open barn door sliders, but harder to reach the truck. A mattock, an axe, a broom, a sled, a dolly; all are needed. Those who didn’t throw their ashes far enough now have to walk in it and track it inside. I hate taking my boots off just to come in the kitchen, so I’ll hopscotch what’s left of the plow piles to clean the treads. Give me liberty or give me formica. A dirty floor is an honest floor. My pine boards show a working person’s wear. And it’s those long drives on the hard road that bring relief from all the messy navigation, that house living demands. Settling back behind the wheel, reloving the curves of the river’s bend, catching glimpses of stark, incontrovertible cliffs that don’t give a shit for you or me, that’s what I like. The enigmatic sign announcing “Hoosiers” where the sun rarely shines but the smoke curls up, and business as usual chugs on, roadside. There, in the deepest of clefts, facing barely south pushed up into a hill, with instruments for sale as well as stuff. I wouldn’t trade away my glance into the dooryard where Verde Antique scraps are thrown in a pile. Or the lumberyard that never seems to have any lumber. Or the confusing signs that declare meals are served, while nothing looks open. I’ll never stop. I just want to pass through. Maybe next year, if people decide life is worth living again sans the fear. I’ve thought about pulling over to take a photo of the dormer on the breezeway of the architect’s building in Hancock. Really, I have, but it’s a spectacle in sleepy towns to just get out of the car for a stretch. I hate to call attention. Two folks next to a car is just a day trip for lovers. One person standing alone, peeping, gawking, admiring, seems suspect and sad. They don’t know how much love I’ve pumped into their travel way. Going on and on, past the same damn things, for so many years, so incredibly glad to just recognize my surroundings, and be able to still dream about the future.”
