Six years ago we came to this same landmark. The sun shone too brightly in our eyes. A stranger took our picture. We’ll never know who.
Two year-olds say things like,
What’s your sister’s name, Daddy?
Where did your grandfather go, Mommy?
(He’s dead. He died.)
Did he go to Las Vegas? Do we all go to our Las Vegases?
Look at what I have. A horn of plenty. There is plenty here.
The therapist pauses for a long time. I’m beginning to think that he, too, is confused.
When I walked out the front door this morning, I found them staring at a spot in the grass. Last night we thought it was a cricket. But he leans down and picks something up, a small machine, a black rectangle smaller than our toddler’s hand, wires coming out one side. It makes a small, steady sound easily mistaken for a cricket noise. He sets it back down.
Image of myself walking back into the room at a family gathering, slouching and bouncing a little, like Steve Martin as a Czech brother on Saturday Night Live. I say in a bold and sing-songy voice, “I just wrote a poem. If you want to be impressed.” A wild and crazy guy.
I have different ideas about what I could achieve during a lunar cycle.
Let’s just say that all this talking is giving me a headache. Or let’s just say it’s my own posture, my own fascia, my own uncertain musculature.