I don’t think we have to slow down and stop searching when we start to feel uncomfortable or when we want security or when we get closer to our thirties. But what I’m trying to say is I think there comes a point where we have to realize that the adventure – the story – the thing we’ve been chasing through college towns, down European streets and across the rolling prairie – isn’t as far away as we think.
But while we sat there, the rest of the world went on outside. The whole neighborhood sat in the shade as their kids ventured to the border of the leaf cover and sprayed passing cars with water hoses. People took slow walks and stood with their arms crossed at the edge of the driveway once the sun dipped behind our house, the embers of their cigarettes like fireflies.
It was that summer while we drug dead animals out from underneath houses, chased cats, built fences and climbed up into attics with electrical wires looped through our belt buckles that we figured out something new – something like the understanding of what it is to work next to someone, to find purpose in silent toil and quiet struggle.
The first move, the one when you’re really out of the house, that’s a big one. You find yourself with the things you left behind before, now trudging along forward with them. Before, they were like deposits of yourself, little idols of permanence you used to weight your memory in the spaces of your childhood.
I know the hour of the stars. When the light in the west lowers, day falls beneath the black stone night places over this running field.