Sometimes I wonder if I will run out of things to say. Sometimes I worry I am not saying anything at all.
I write this in a letter:
“I looked at an old photograph, remarked about how young I looked though I do not remember feeling so young back then. I do not remember who I was before I moved to Idaho. That part of my life relegated so far that it feels the same as childhood. But, perhaps that is what happens over and over again, who we were recedes toward the horizon in lieu of who we are becoming.”
Perhaps the same thing will happen to this me and it will all be a story we tell over dinner in a house we do not yet have; those years by the sea, and how I was so consumed by it I wrote an entire book about it. How I never meant to even write that book. How quiet the water can make you.
The water is so clear I can see straight to the bottom. There are no waves right now which is something for the winter. I cannot imagine not being able to see the horizon, and I do not suppose I will always be this lucky. Is luck the right word? It sure does feel like it.
I am just looking for things to say, to connect the dots I feel floating around the room, the things we are not saying. This morning it is a quiet life and for that I am grateful. I could sit here and watch the tide go out for another year. I could learn to speak French or play the guitar. I could make a baby or a loaf of bread. I could write letters or bury old debts. I could look at photographs or call my mother on the phone, take the dog for a walk, or just be alone. Perhaps I am not saying anything at all.
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