On Homesickness. - The second time I went to New England was after a prolonged time in the deep south. My tenure at Louisiana State University had come to a close (relativel...
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Adrift, akimbo, a capella
Don't expect musical accompaniment. That would denote rhythm. And this summer, for me, has had none.
Summer is a raft on the river, sans rudder or paddle. Everything is adrift. And I dig it. With the girls out of school, the sun staying up late, and most the house sleeping in, days are blank slates when I get home.
Go with the flow... but this flow is unaccompanied. It has no soundtrack. If it did, it would be the sound of cornhole bags smacking wood or flopping on pavement. It would be the sound of kids cannonballing in the deep end or laughing on rides at small town carnivals.
It's the summer of the cornhole.
Woken by the dogs, my watch says 2:20 a.m. "A few weeks ago we'd have just been going to bed."
I stand with my hands on my hips wondering what "arms akimbo" means. Sometimes you like the sound of a word before you catch its drift.
Drift and flow, silence, and summer, all spin in a tumble dry low dream cycle, and when I open the door...
It's morning. I'm making coffee. And fall is looking in the window, holding a paddle for me.