Go West

I'm moving to Vancouver in September.

There are things that I have that I imagine I won't need there, like my fur hat and all those Steinbeck books I own, and there are things that I imagine I will need there, like a raincoat, and some pals.

Maybe I'll bring the Steinbeck anyway, for company.

Countdown

I am an undergraduate student until Tuesday. Until then, I will write late, wake early, and spend my days and nights in the ugly (always humming) library that has been my second home for the past 3 and a half years. I will drink too much coffee, write approximately 5,000 more words, and neglect my growing laundry pile for just 3 and a half more days. I will wear the pants with the loosest waistbands for the most comfortable sitting. I will stretch and that will be my luxury. My hair, artificially out of place at the beginning of the day, will be genuinely out of place by the noon hour. Bangs back, books out. Half-priced day-olds. Two day overdue fines, going on three. Four more sleeps. Only four more sleeps.

You & Yours and Me & Mine

Summer's coming.

Remember the white, blonde-haired woman, with her leg up on the lawn mower, her black polka-dotted white halter dress, her repeated desperate tugs at the cord, and her hair, shoulder length and bobbed, hitting her face more violently with each pull? She looked like this.

On a sweltering day, wearing a thick wool skirt, with a cigar and iced-tea in hand on our way to see West Side Story. I say you'll get tongue cancer. I smoke too.

The woman beckons us from across the street. We direct ourselves across the patch of grass separating us from the road to her aid. Just as soon as we decide to help she gives one last yank and the machine starts. She waves jubilantly, thanking us for our intentions.

After the show we can't decide where to get ice cream.