club day justwrite abstraction

Abstract elsewhere, unfolding maps in the back of the car and folding them again on the islands between highways, no time to dig for treasure because there are at least seven wildflowers to be picked, an empty cup on my dashboard just waiting for some stems. I build an earthen dwelling and watch the weather come in, waiting for the rain as if it is a sure thing, remembering how it all started with a puff of smoke and a twig I called magic, waving it above your head and knowing when the fog came we would be invisible, assuming we stayed fifteen yards or more away from things with eyes. The grass is less cold than I remember, melts the ice in my veins to water itself, drinks deeply and recalls what it couldn't face before, the strength of the moon in July and how long it takes to count the stars, having to start over and over again because they keep suffocating, sending so much light in every direction that it's gone so soon, the way stuffing runs out before potatoes on Christmas and toddlers are instantly teenagers unless you stare so close you can't see the creases form on their skin, the wonder behind their eyes replaced with pain replaced with wonder again, like realizing you'll never know how much you don't know but knowing that is enough. The lines on the maps are blurry now, but the lines on my palms are as clear as ever.