“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn’t be. And what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?” -Lewis Carroll
There is a lot of wind here and it’s something I would have written about there. I’ve come up to a point and nothing is marked. I am looking in all of the usual places for the direction, a sign of where to turn but there are none. The familiarity of this place is bland, and I miss my attic bedroom like someone I once loved. I miss all of it: the corners, and the store, and my lunch counter, and my drives to the farm school, and the sunset, and the rain in the backyard, and the incense from the basement, and the sound of her shoes. I miss that me, whoever I was being even though she was sad, she was full on that sadness.
I often wake up and I don’t know where I am but the wind blows hot and the planes land backward, and I’m still trying to do right by you. It shouldn’t be hard. They’re moving into a ranch house and in my mind it has a large tree and he will probably start cooking again. And I think about them and feel like they’re going to be good at it this time, like I don’t have to worry about her anymore. And when we’re talking I’m standing outside her old house just by coincidence and it makes me understand how time folds in on itself and how one might pass easily through it. I imagine myself walking out of that driveway so many years ago.
Sometimes being back feels like failing. Do you remember when I told you my biggest fear was that it would feel like none of that ever happened? Some dream I made one afternoon. When the wind blows like this and the planes land backward, that is exactly what it feels like.