You say things like, I haven’t the time. And I hear things like, take the turnpike, a left toward Montana. Out here the things we aren’t saying weigh heavy in the road like detours that take hours to get around. And never take us where we are wanting to go. Where are we wanting to go? Massive pieces of earth rise and fall around us, slabs of granite hold us in, rivers that run and whine and churn and dictate where the road goes. In photographs taken this weekend we both look young, younger next to trees that reach far outside the frame. Years from now we will pull these pictures from a box kept in the cupboard beneath the glass case of china in the living room. You will say things about how thin I was, how long my hair was, and how madly we were in love. In the kitchen there are eggs on the stove, they boil and clinking together in water. It will be summer and there are people over and everyone has a nice slow afternoon buzz, and we think about how lucky we have always been. Someone told me recently that the story only starts when thing start to get bad. In which case, I hope we are never the stuff stories are made of.