Outpouring Thoughts

July 12, 2010

This past weekend you laid your head on my shoulder as we were speeding down the busy highway. The lines and dots on the road made a rhythm to the folk music we were listening to. As your freckled forehead rested gently on my collar bone, I thought of growing old with you. This, however, was not romantic. I thought of getting Alzheimer’s and saying cross things to you. I thought of having to clean up after your accidents. The sacred act of you clipping my toenails when my back no longer allows me to reach them.

Perhaps this is not how it will be at all. I’d like to imagine the cool breeze floating through the open windows of our breakfast nook. The smell of honey and oats is sinking into our nostrils. My pinpoint collared shirt tucked firmly into my madras patterned pants. Your posture is remarkable for your age and there is a certain grace in your small aging hands.

These are the pointless thoughts that run through my broken head. I should simply breathe easy and let my mind be silent as J. Tillman sings to the rhythm of the dotted highway lines.


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