stories

The path I run is a circle. Like always around the same question -- where are the words?

I walk up the hill. And at the end take off my shoes and socks and sit on this cool concrete.

Still outside. All of me.

First: closed eyes, crossed legs, thinking about only the breath. Morning sun filters through the backyard oaks, shifting sun and shadows over my closed lids. More breath.

Then: feels like faces, inches from my own, moving closer then away. Games of sun and shade. But I imagine lips moving, hands reaching. I'm still. Open. But I can only hear that traffic and these leaves.  I can only feel this breeze drying all that sweat.

There are stories right in front of me. I want to know them so I can taste them. So I can tell them.  But my eyes are closed and I can't see them.

Hi, Mama. I turn my head and see her face pressed against the screen door. My lips -- my eyes and ears, even -- lift and shift into a smile.

So finally, this is it: the only story I know right now is my own.

Hi, Baby. I go inside.