Once I put in all the storm widows, thirty something, and if I’d stayed awhile would have hung the Christmas lights too. It is easy, convenient to be incapable. Convenient and not real.
No childlike ebullience. I was standing like a paper doll,we were standing behind the rope swing,the river as unbelievable as always. The story doesn’t end somewhere. Poinsettia petals on the crumb covered plaid – nor hangnails.
Yet I have lifted up and down all day, carrots from the cellar cold to the countertop above, and in the car, floating like a water-ride, one of those three seat log vessels that dip between the hills.
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