Listening to Iron & Wine and retrieving the bits of my heart and mind that school scattered.  I’m gathering the books I checked out of the Hodges and Lawson-McGhee libraries, trying to erase the notes I pencilled in the margins before I return them.  Now,

they subside in stacks, while the entire kitchen is filled with the music and voices of somewhere else, some other time.  I remember being younger, so much less sure of myself and the shape my presence should make in the world of people.  In college, I listened to Nick Drake and Bono, and after, I listened to Mark Kozelek and Sam Beam, Karen Peris and Patty Griffin.  I’m shocked to realize that I have learned to make a kind of definition for my strange existence, and that these old songs can still call up such an amount of uncontained / disembodied yearning.

How encouraging I would have found it, to know at twenty-one that I would arrive at pieces of knowledge steadily over the years.  No matter the insufficiency of the current time, it is sufficient.

Now, in the center of this moment, I live in a beautiful house.  I walked in it kind of blindly during the semester, but now that the momentum of the day isn’t constantly urging me forward, into a future time, I’m aware of its honey-colored wood floors, its tall kitchen windows looking secretly out to the shed, under trees.  I’m aware of the cosmos, bells of ireland, yarrow, cornflowers, and black-eyed susans silently arranging themselves in the flowerbed, and of the snails in the wet, morning yard.

In this moment, I find Samantha’s prints looking down at me from the kitchen walls, and the blue rocking-chair, from the corner of the kitchen.  This place is filled with blue eyes.