The empty planters on the sidewalk are puddled with rainwater, have wild things growing in them and floating petals. I paint on the floor during the day and actually try to be social at night for a little while. I visit family and my little brother and sister can talk now, the forsythia is blooming and the town is the same one i’ve visited since i was a kid. Go through boxes of my mother’s old things, posters for punk shows, letters written to the hotel in nyc she lived in as a teenager, photos of my parents on road trips and their first apartment in colorado with a view of the mountains. My taxi driver from the airport plays the flute and harmonica as he drives and tells me to go to school.
The days are empty, I try to be good and whole but often it feels like i’m treading above some sort of endless and meaningless breakdown- it comes out a lot lately and i feel no good about it. My boy takes me to the atlantic ocean this year for my birthday rather than the pacific. The trees on our street bloom with the white flowers that fall apart quickly and we buy a big sleeper truck to road trip in over the summer. I watch birds fly slowly and the buds on the trees of the cathedral on mott street early in the morning, warm and dark-cloudy, and think of how that’s how quiet i always want it to be.