Tuesday, March 18,2008

Tuesday, March 18, 2008. Wake up, get up from the couch, your eyes blurred and focused on the wood grain coffee table, cold zippers and belt buckles against bare skin. This is your morning wake-up call.

Let the paper flow from the the window, onto the street and into the neighbors yard. They have been printing pictures you took with your sister on the lake. The rain hit your windshield in the dark, seconds to see out in front of you after the wipers pushed it to the side, 'til the glass filled up again. Somehow the moon shone through the clouds, but you both sat, afraid to move, put the car and drive and ride along the shore. Each shot was evidence of mud on your tires, kicked up on the door, thick enough not to be washed off by the rain. Even leaves kicked up by the turns in the road stick to the side in the downpour. The night your sister asked you to teach her how to drive. She asked why we never saw lightning shoot yellow out of clouds, zig zagging to the earth, and why the clouds don't look like connected U's filled in with grey. You asked her why wet newspaper leaves letters on the kitchen table and how many syllables she would like to have in her name. You knew the answer. Skip this morning's paper. Wake up.