In the summer you write in the morning.

Posted on Updated on

What can I tell you that you don’t already know?

 

The 101 in Ventura County in June smells strawberry sweet.  There are paintings of seagulls on a wall in town, circling a convertible.

My sister-in-law is 8 and a half months pregnant and I never got to hug her when her belly was big and round.

For every 10 men on the internet dating site, odds are 1 is actually looking for more than just text-flirting for fun.

June gloom in Orange County means running on the beach when the air is buoyant gray. The best way to run is Santigold.

The neighbor runs laundry all day long but never goes anywhere.  20 years of healing can be imparted inside 2 minutes of wisdom.

I fell in love 5 times since the winter, and all 5 are still sober, today.

 

My last cousin graduated.  I left my love for so long, back there.

Peace with my grammy

restored. I don’t have to watch out

for them anymore. It makes me mad that all that time has passed

and the most I have to show for it are some photos on a screen.

What can I tell myself

about home that I

don’t already

know?

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s