The son told his father that he missed his mother.
“Well,” the father said, with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know if she’s coming back.”
The two men were both adults so it was possible to have this conversation play out with more thought, precise pacing and respect, than otherwise would be expected, given that wife and mother left them to find another child. That did not belong to her current husband. And in no way was related to her current son.

She never saw it coming. And it came as a storm. Lightning, wind, rain. Clearasil. As a teenager, spots appeared on her forehead, or nose or cheek. Never all at once and the ointment kept her from going insane, thanks God.
But as things happen, she had more pressing problems on the night of The Storm. The ensuing flood swelled the creek that ran near her home. She could see the water rising to her backyard. It thrilled her. She beamed that night.

She loved storms. Both inner and outer. It was on that night that the pinwheel machine rose from the mud, washed to the surface, spinning providing its riches. To the tune of a million dollars. She became rich inside and out. And her face cleared up. A lot of things did. Boy oh boy, did they.

I never asked for this and in the meantime, the children are needing some movies to watch and you are still trying to decide where the last toys were left? The toys have been chewed up and eaten. Look for them in the toilet, really. I mean really, dear, you must know that I have been up and down this house all while on my phone talking a client down from the edge.

“Ledge,” her husband corrects her as he stands there among their screaming children.

“Ledge?” she cries incredulously.

“You said you were talking the client down from the edge. I think you meant ledge.”

She smiles. “Why yes, dear. Yes I did mean that.” She keeps smiling and this make him very nervous.

I’m just writing to tell you I will never write to you again. But before I begin (to not write to you), I have to tell you–or write rather–that Sundoo did not influence this decision. It was Fundoo that did.

You want someone and they come too early and too clearly, with so many angles and nuances and urgency and morning breath and you just want to say, “Hey, this is too much. Go back to the fantasy.”

But they can’t become a fantasy. Fantasy comes from you. So you’ll have to go back to your own fantasy and avoid this person who just became to real for you.

Canons booming, the sky lit up by artillery. Enemies laid slain, others maimed beyond recognition. The soldier fielded his way into something that felt remotely sheltering–blades of grass, near the sound of a babbling brook.
He rested there, slept, dreamed, of his family, the dog that lapped up water and made everyone laugh.
He felt the dog’s tongue on his face now.
He woke up. He was alive. Not at war. But not yet at peace.

Brewing underneath my skin, infused in colors of red, green, brown, gold. Flecks flying through me. This burst of color will last for about seventy-eight years. And then the colors will fade to one color. A dull gray. But that’s okay.

Summertime in Caper’s Babe. I’m sure summers are the same elsewhere here in Texas, but summers in Caper’s Babe are special, to me at least, because of the people. There are some interesting people here. Like the men I’d watched earlier. I slept in their attic later that night. But before that, I sat with them at dinner. But before that, they showered off the sweat. They used Dial soap and Prell shampoo and splashed on Brut aftershave. They dried each other off. They dressed.
I find dressing one’s body more fascinating than anything; the choices, colors, fabrics, the buttons, zippers, the softness and harness, the lines and curves.
Once they were ready, off they went to participate in various activities. I wondered if I should follow or stay on in the house and find my own things to participate in.

I love the dark recesses of a room on a show like the Young and the Restless. I love the flying hair of the Bionic Woman. I love the attachments of song to image. I love the stillness of a scene. I love just standing there. And I did, from the outside of a house, near a tree. There were two men inside the house, making love. At times they were soft and gentle with each other; at other times, violent. I watched only for a moment before I noticed the little red wagon parked next to the garden hose, which was coiled along the left bank of the house, just next to the small steps leading into what I assumed was a service room or garage.

I loved finding the red wagon. I loved lifting it’s handle seeing its relative newness. And knowing their were no children in the house, I found it intriguing. Did it belong to one of the men. Which one? The shorter dark, swarthier one or the blond with the long limbs and golden haired chest? Along its chassis, in white lettering was the name Radio Flyer. A classic, I presumed. I thought about this for awhile. It wasn’t that I would disturb the men if I started pulling it along the house. For I’d often done things right in front of them that they never noticed. I’d even been in their bedroom when they’d been having sex and they hardly batted an eye (except to each other) In fact, no one in this town seemed to notice my activity. And in particular, this house was far from the main road. And at this time of the day, nearing late afternoon, they’d done all the farm work. The cows had been milked. The barn swept and maintained. I was basically alone at my own disposal. And that of the little red wagon.

So, I took the wagon by the handle and began my journey, pulling it along the footpath that the men had worn from the service door to the front of the house, where a large porch met me and my red, shiny conveyance. I waved at the potted plants. I waved at the black and white cat that watched me, as it sat along the northeast banister of the porch.  I stopped and asked her if she’d like a ride. She yawned and looked the other way, seemingly bored. So I continued. I passed the porch onto the other side of the house where there less windows, more higher up. for the second floors. I loved the second floor. This is where I planned on staying the night.

Preens massage their way through paths, you see, through spaces, in much the same way as water. Only we are not as clear. We take on many shapes but our true one tends to frighten humans. Except for special humans. I suspected one or both of the men making love to each other might be one of those special humans. But I wasn’t sure.

So I decided to stick around and see in the current form I was, the unnoticeable form, the safe form, the form that massaged through.

I rounded the house and found myself passing underneath the bedroom window of the men again. Each time I passed underneath it (for I went around the house probably hundreds of times until the night came) I heard the men, their catches of breath, the bed springs creaking. They were in it for the long haul.

And so was this preen, whose quality for loving things they loved might sometime, this summer, prove vital in their lives. And my own.

The lines of her muscles seemed to run at cross purposes. The chest rippling into her armpit like mad water running over a gorge. In order to mount her, I have to raft my way to the left of her hips; the current will carry me there. Or her perfume.

But I am stopped at bridge after bridge. I bring too much cargo. I am weighed down. I will sink to the bottom if I don’t unload. Very, very soon, I must unload.