I'm homesick. Over breakfast John tried to guess what it was I missed: stuff?
routine? knowing where everything is? No, no, and no. It goes deeper than
that, somehow. We played disc golf. The day was nice, the light crisp, the
ground moist and squishy in places from recent rains. No one else walked
the fairways but for a couple with multiple discs for every purpose in their
shoulder bags. We had all-purpose drivers, blue for me,
yellow for john, and on about the
13th hole of our second round he found another yellow one abandoned in tall
grass. Drainage ditches, pipes for bridges, we birdied and bogied, staying
within a couple of strokes of one another.
Back in Seattle, it was Jed and James's birthdays, a drawing group in our
apartment, cheesecake from Chrystya and Andi skated twice around Greenlake,
her fingers cold by the end of it. I found a modicum of peace and purpose
in preparing a thank-you note for
Monte and Kristina. Sarah wrote of moving stuff into her new studio. Where
does the time go, Andi asked over the phone. The eternal question. Where
it's always gone, I answer now in a Texas kitchen, alone. Into the rough,
into the rough. And all we can do is drop a new ball.