i am for real- never meant to make your daughter cry

i walked downtown yesterday under a sky so blue it looked like technicolour. the pavement on my road has been heaved by the recent february thaw. its texture is something close to lizard skin, but it looks like bleached bones, the salt staining the asphalt a dry white. when cars go by it's like standing by the ocean: traces of salt sitting on your lips and in your hair.

i cleaned out a drawer that has, through some default, become a dropping ground for everything from pine cones to bill stubs. there's melted candies, an old driving license and a ruler from high school in there as well.

the best, though, are the letter remnants.

i like to send real mail, but sometimes i don't finish letters before the news has been overshadowed by something new. sometimes, i'll read what i've written and think "what in hellfire were you smoking?!?"

mostly, though, i get a good picture in my head.

try this on for size:

"it is morning. not too early, but early enough to find me wrapped in a blanket and savoring my giant mug of coffee. all around me are expanses of hardwood floor, patterns of light dashed across them through old glass. the cbc is playing something dreadful (organs! aaaahh), and the sound is drifting in from the next room over. outside of every window i can see (of which there are four) i can see trees and laves and exciting outside things. everything smells like paint or wood polish. and i- well, i don't know for sure if words could possibly suffice in quite describing how much i love this house. it's pure magic, everything is beyond explicable. i can't wait to show it to as many people as possible."

i still feel like this every time i see my roof against the sky.