I descend upon Norfolk after travelling many deer slain miles.
Fourteen exactly, perished upon I-81, 501south, and I-64.
I wonder what drew them there in the first place, probably reasons not to unlike my own.
Finding food, drink, a solace from hunters chasing them.
I have driven so much it all looks the same. Even though I've travelled these roads before; the places look new to me. I don't feel like the girl that left Norfolk on a drizzly November day is the same girl returning again to her Mountainy home.
I jog even though the cold air steals the breath from my lungs. Oddly enough I never had asthma til I moved to the Ocean.
I remember old times gone by with people left behind by progress, or others, or the years bitter grasp.
I eat dinner with my new family and wonder why no ones talking and then I realize that it is not one family but four strangers and the only one being thankful for the turkey is the house cat.
My brother calls from oceans away I'm reminded why I'm thankful. He sends pictures of beauty despite being in one of the most disastrous places on earth. And reminds me that you don't have to be in paradise to find YOURSELF. Which believe it or not, I've been missing me for a long time now.
I go to watch a movie I've already seen with my mother and feel incredibly proud there are people that use and believe in the power of imagination and that my mom has lost none of hers even in her older age.
Even though I've only been gone for 4 days from HOME - its just as I left it and for now it's where I'm meant to be.
well there and mi Hogar*.
:)
3 comments:
You know, this isn't even all that cheesy, Ms. Paxton.
There was this guy in my Craft of Poetry class that wrote a poem about playing checkers with his dead grandfather and the hippie Jack Kerouac wannabees in my class totally tore him to shreds . It was BRUTAL.
I was channeling another writer I think. Tomorrows blog will be to pick an object and transfer it's feelings to paper.
Oh Imac, my burdened siamese twin; eeeny beeny chilli beany......
You know something else, those writing kids WERE a bit on the brutal side. The beautiful thing drawing is that there's an ambiguity about it. What makes good art varies from person to person. With writing, it's either something you wanna read, or something that doesn't. I hope your checker playing friend found his way to blogger. Where "B" grade writers can shine as bright as those who chose english/writing as their profession.
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