DAMA & DIG

Time to slow down, time to take our vitamins and say hello to our mothers. The truck is leaking oil, a quart a day since Texas. We've left a greasy trail behind us, through New York, up and over to Connecticut, and I can't keep up with it. I want to say we've unpacked here in Nate's family home, but I haven't. My things are scattered; my art books, the big books, are in Maine with my mother, my records and my shoes in boxes next to the attic door in a home that isn't mine, my keyboard in the back of the truck, my guitar in a basement in San Francisco. Suppose that's not my guitar anymore. And there's more, in some other place out of sight, but I don't even remember what. 

We're staying here in Connecticut a while, keeping company to Nate's mother, his uncle, his little brother, the cat, the bird, the Lhasa Apso. I organize the bathroom, I bake a Strawberry Rhubarb pie, I help with the groceries, I work on making the room in the barn our studio. We dangle our feet over the edge in New York on weekends when we want to feel the vibrations. It would be unbecoming of me to stay in that city forever, but oh how refreshing it is to be somewhere I don't have to smile at anyone.