Cash me out, I'm tired and hopeless, I'm falling sidewise in the stacks. Only my skin is young, a deceitful beacon. I am sick in the usual way, and in an unusual way. I am sad enough to wish I had a hound. "Remember this for me," I said to some fellow as I walked him to his book and sang, "Cue are es, tea you vee." "Sixty-one," he said, walked out later with his heavy burden like a Christian. I have felt a wild desire to do simple things. To reclaim my ottoman, drive to Seattle for a cup of tea and a curfew so early I don't see the sun go down but from stove-side or vague-window. Very small yet largely unsolved mysteries stitch my day with scraps of color. The mystery of the house ghost, the mystery of Ol' Custer. The mystery of how the hell am I going to make that much pumpkin pie? I would give much for just a brief moment with Christ. I would give back the very pretty things I've bought for a piece of peace made from scratch. I was frightened I'd forget sixty-one, but I sure remember. It is easier to buckle than to holler that I can't do this alone.
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