The boy is gone.
There are no more poetry notebooks.
Sunflower seeds get caught in my dental work.
Cross-country trips don't make me feel like Charles Lindbergh. More like a long-haul trucker hoping to see something he's missed on all the other trips.
To protect my heart, I've quit smoking, and mostly quit singing.
I used to stare at myself in the mirror, thinking: "Who is that?" It's been two decades since I bothered with that shit.
I'm not as funny as I used to be. I've got too much to protect, and too much else to excuse.
I have been richly compensated for these losses, I thought, as I looked at Scout in the rear view mirror this morning, the love songs I listened to in college all around us, and tried to hide my tears as she looked at me back.
I opened my mouth and the boy's voice came out and sang.
He and I are off for two weeks, rambling through Wisconsin and Michigan on my Triumph, and then shambling around Colorado and California with my Scout.
Back in a bit.