I went home today. I don’t know what I can tell you about the surreality of it. Some things were so familiar. Some were much smaller. Some were a sucker punch. Some I’d like to bottle. Some were gone.
A thing I’d planned to do but didn’t was to walk the back yard and stare down the interstate, to stand listening to the cars thump, thump, thump on by. But the interstate is now a faceless chorus girded by trees and shrubs. It is blind and muted.
Not wanting to be intrusive, I have no photos. Things that struck me down are hard and mundane–curved pipes into a washtub, a metal smoke detector, the dog house beyond the patio doors. It’s been there forever, they say. I got that dog for my 5th birthday, I don’t.
I’ve started an Undraft of the memoir, more notes and sorted fragments, notions I brought home I hadn’t known to put into words.
There are no excuses left. There is only freedom in writing.