It’s cold it’s hot it’s cold again. I was packed to leave days ago. I like it better when there is no plan. Still I need a ticket to leave. Something I can touch at least. Paper to skin happens less and less don’t you think? But maybe I’m the weird one. Or is it everyone else? The more days that dissipate the closer I feel to the latter. Baby steps turned to a sprint. The last time I was back the house felt bigger. Less photos on the walls. We barely deviated from the glossy white. Off-white for the living room almost felt like a risk. But what’s a living room. The room we saved for show? And didn’t it feel so silly it retrospect? Something to preserve. Something about maintaining control. My dad broke down the dark room last summer. Two summers ago? The one he built inside our three-car garage. My brother’s summer fall winter filled with film photography. Hundreds of clicks from the edge of the cliff and the hill with the swing and the stairs lining the beach path. Something about rocking the roll between your palms. The sound of liquid over film. Quietly hoping you don’t fuck it up. Softly, slowly. We’d pick a song to play. Anything to match our pace and pulse until we had something to show for it.
