I was 23. I had been living in San Francisco for close to a year and I had come home to Vermont for a month to smooth down my feathers.
August 5, 2000
Quiet, glassy, night water. Friends floating happily. Stars shooting. Seen. Unseen. With a head full of memories, like a house full of lovely sleeping people, I can breathe new into old. Being now, I am sad to grasp onto the time. Don’t tick. Please stop to leave me where I am. Hooded sweatshirt comfy and warm. Sitting up in the middle of the bed. Sniffly dogs, clacking paws but delicate (they are small). But happy being here now on a quiet glassy lake. Ready for sleep.
Aug. 7, 2000
I made the perfect cup of tea and I drink it outside between showers of rain. The lake is calm again. A breeze mattes the water soft. Breathing air that’s thick misty warm. The bubbling murmur of a distant boat engine. The calling birds. The drops of water dripping from the eaves onto the wet deck wood. The smell of my laundered towel. A waft of inside air. And I can smell a hint of the dinner mom cooked on Saturday, Memories collect now in every corner. In the corners of my eyes. In my curled hands as I sleep.
I drifted down the Otter Creek with Keri yesterday. In a tippy canoe. We went slow. We talked long into the day.
The rain is here. My cup has been emptied.