I have journals and composition books stashed all over the place. They’re all written in, to one degree or another. I’m like a squirrel with my journals. I find a clean one, chew on it a bit with my pencil, then stuff it away somewhere for later use. And, like a squirrel, I often forget about them.
I reach forward, shrunken hands on arm-ends looking to grasp the fullness of the memory of sounds. The landscape leans back, laughter pulled and stretched, my lips wide with wanting the laughter to be coming from me.