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2002-04-01 || 6:21 p.m. || lost weekends || my head hurts from all the miles, all the changes in temperature. the light reflecting off of the backs of tanker trucks, off rear view mirrors, off tin cans on the shoulder. today it felt like a very long drive. am radio and none of the cds felt right and it was just. exhausting. i stopped at gas stations. in los angeles and lake castaic and kettleman city and i looked at everyone around me. i saw all of them. the old ladies and boys in awful sunglasses. truck drivers. dads. i visited my gram yesterday. her hair has gotten very long and frames her face in trained waves. my dad showed her pictures of south america and she branched off into a story with each picture. my grandfather's cooking school. the death of the queen mum. the cats next door. how my cousin recently told her she never realized that i am pretty. she talked about her sister, how it's so strange she can't talk to her whenever she wants to anymore, although she has taken up the habit of saying 'goodnight, edie' aloud before she goes to bed. my parents kept saying they were thrilled they got to see us all weekend. my mum said it's my dad. he is always so disappointed when i come down and then he never sees me. i notice now how it manifests: waiting with me in the train station, silently. driving in the car to grammy's with me, silently. going to the mall with me and kelly so that he can buy mum an easter present. splitting up in the macy's and meeting in a half hour, finding him ten minutes late sitting at a bench where the old men sit. where my old man sits. my old man inspires silence. my old man gently pushes the future on me. why am i not going to grad school. what are my plans. why am i not going anywhere really. why don't i have my money in a roth ira (is that right?). and i am driving him home, always driving, and keeping back the tears. i have my own opinions on the subject. and we pull into the driveway. and we walk inside. and later he will tell my mum what transpired. and later i will hug him good night. and then i'll make that drive back up here and feel different, rearranged. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |