Much of the writing I do (not much to speak of) is inspired by the writing of others, aspiring to be better than the bad, maybe even as good as the good. None of the writing so prompted succeeds. Much of the writing about writing (mine and others, much too much) is deception. Writers are liars.     It’s unclear whether you’ve become more active, or if we’ve grown more aware of your activity.     There’s a red sticker on the rafter, claimed at auction, there’s a red caution tape, keeping out, there’s a sturdy tape measure, extended, bending earthward, there’s a machine beeping, stealing the silence, there’s a shadow on the carpet, easier on the stomach than the horizon.

When you die I’ll have all your things. When all my things die I’ll not.

Everything is piercing, crushing, unfolding so slowly.

There’s a firm short hair, perfect for nibbling, gnawing, there’s a reminder in the corner of my window, so many reminders.     Insider Training and Code of Conduct Training has somehow made it’s way onto my list of goals for the day. Getting out of here has to happen first.     The location field has lost all meaning, assigned names and numbers never physical. Concrete referentiality is a crutch I’m reluctant to return. Something to touch an undeniable attraction, delays plastered     Typed commas in a query      Happen faster.

Many anticipated events call for forgotten skills. If only I could have held it all, all this time. Vocalization needs to be relearned.

Stabilizing, appreciated if not for the best.

The sounds haven’t stopped, there is movement. How much comfort is too much, how little struggle is enough. Groups are gathering and dispersing. Someone suggests we get lickety.

We all want to know when. A quadrant of my mouth is a rock, still very effective at what it’s needed to do.     Some flaws should be patched, others embraced.

It’s a dance they have us do, by law, in fact. One of the two steps is more imperative, by which I mean enforced, so you can wind up a ways off in one direction if you let them let you slide. One step, the truly necessary one, comes like clockwork, can be counted upon. There is a right time. The second step is something we’re told to ask to be asked to do. I tend to avoid bothering, which is why I’m way over here, having stepped so many times this way without ever stepping back.

When, on a whim, under the weight of neglected responsibility I do at last ask, they insist upon immediately performing each missed step in succession, under scrutiny, with additional attention paid to form. They even get in my way, sending obstacles, competing vectors, angle-defying lines. I do it, though. I triumph. The increased difficulty contributes to the accomplishment. It may not be perfect, but it meets every criterion, of which there are many, many of which are spitefully imposed. I do the dance that they insisted I do while exerting every effort to prevent me from doing it.

Thankfully, because of the assumption of my entertaining failure, my unexpectedly adequate performance is documented in somewhat thorough detail. This record is shuffled and filed, but thankfully I have secured and will continue to bask in the glory of a facsimile, a testament to my neglected yet persevering ability to do each part of an involuntary physical expression.

His was a loving scowl, a knowing joke, almost constantly crabby, otherwise, endearingly, singing. A voice, a tone, tuned to resonate in your bones, that warm feeling without the stasis. Even the breaths were suspenseful. Always a head of hair. Craning limbs with impossible joints and reach could easily catch anyone trying to run past, chasing dachshund, brother, dinner. In his orbit you had no choice, didn’t want one.  A giver of gifts, a gatherer, an insistent snorer. Just barely at home here, apparent in a belonging somewhere kinder, slower, fuller of riches. Attended, tended to, though subjected to some cruel fates, as a general rule his generosity was returned. Never alone no matter how much he seemed it. He had this thing with herring.

I think he wants me to run, but I’ve never seen him so far away from me, especially not here, and there are so many more interesting things to use my senses and muscles for. Besides, we’ve been over here, I’ve been back and forth, we’ve walked that way and then back this way. This area is soft but it is also familiar. I need newness.

I believe I’ve earned something. I’ve done everything you asked, or at least everything I can remember you asking. Was there something else you wanted me to do? Within reason. Can we go over there? I’m going to go over there. I see you here, I don’t know what you’re doing, I’ve never seen you do that before, but here has grown tiresome. I’m going there. There is so much promise there. I know my way, I’ve been over there before, never without you, but you’re coming too. No? That’s ok, I’m going, you’ll catch up.

Everything ahead is so rich, it’s going to be so great and fulfilling. I am sure that if I turn left where we usually turn right, I will find what I have always been looking for. I’ve been waiting for you to take me left but we almost never go left. We go left so rarely, I can’t remember if it was everything I hoped it would be.

It’s weird that there are these big sinky piles everywhere covering up all the good stuff. There’s still some good stuff not covered, and maybe I can get through some parts of the piles, but I’d rather not bother. I don’t trust the piles. There are so many piles and I have no idea where they came from. I wish the piles weren’t here, and I don’t at all like whatever that big noise is. I’m not sure why all of a sudden I feel threatened, but I do.

I’ll wait right by the gate, but only if you don’t run at me. Please don’t run at me. I won’t know what to do, and it might make me run too. It’s honestly so weird to be this far away from you.

Up on tippy toes to keep her feet from being covered in cold, she is my holiday. This is not a sunbathing kind of beach trip, this is a gift timely and rare. An exemption for the sake of my family, an excuse to hole up in this new tent. She and I biked away from a room full of love, temporarily traded coasts, and made space for a few days of being something new together. We hiked and drove on the edges of cliffs, our eyes lifted to see forgotten stars or sharp streams of light slicing through thick treetops or deer. And whales.

We stayed briefly in varying degrees of luxury, all exceedingly grand, none holding a monopoly on beauty. Our longest rest kept us in a city that eccentrically insists on its hyphenated name and more than lives up to its 4.5 star average Yelp review. We were surrounded by qualities, well fed, and otherwise too in awe to be more than mostly unfazed by things like celebrity sightings and housekeeping employees who’ve forgotten to knock.

We bookended the week with another heaping pile of open hearts, the ones we want to have surrounding us on the borders, tucking us in at the edges, seeping in to our own, showing us what it all means, feeling everything together, conceding new ground to let us return the gesture. Celebration begets celebration, and thankfully has very little to do with us aside from how blessed we feel to take part in it.

A couple months later, we’ve yet to see the sweetness wane.