300 miles

300 miles between us won't fix much of anything...
but we stay. on our respective sides. one to the east, one to the west.
i don't belong on the east side, but here i sit. waiting, wondering, fuming, musing, missing, screaming.
i belong in the west. on our prairie. where your wise words and jokes flow like the cannonball.

i know you don't remember. i just couldn't back down. i had to stand my ground. i think on any other day you would have been proud. but that day, it was too hot. it was too much. it wasn't ok. it was too hot. our tempers were too hot. and 300 miles between us won't fix much of anything..

stubborn and strong we are. stubborn and strong we remain. no sound on either side. bloody war. no smoke signals, no nothing. it's silence for 300 miles. a very loud, prominent silence. the absence of sound cuts through my heart like a knife. on that day, one red truck went east, one went west. no goodbye. just tires on the pavement. spinning. racing.

daily thoughts, i bury. i put them away. i put them in a box and tape them up. 300 miles of silence. 300 miles is a long way. what could i say. what should i say. how do i begin. i can't apologize. i can't make a joke. i can't stand these goddamn 300 miles.

that day, heading east. tires on the pavement. tears in my eyes. ache in my heart. i can't carry on this way. with these 300 miles of silence. something has to give. it has to be me. maybe a song, maybe the mutton tale, maybe...maybe...just erasing 300 miles. because 300 miles between us won't fix much of anything.

102 feathers found

I listen to my "Take the Money and Run" Pandora channel in the evenings most of the time. Right around the time my dad should be cooking dinner. I sit at the table, doing my homework, it goes on and on. I can't help but wish I was in the kitchen dancing around, giggling and throwing eggs and potatoes at each other saying "think fast."

We dink around. That's what we do. No one gets me giggling like my dad. And I'd like to say I do the same...Pretty close anyway. We have code words, inside jokes, outside jokes, made up songs.

Apart from all the laughter, there's been stern support. Big hands lifting me up, patting my back. These aren't even my favorite things. I would think the dinking would be. But what makes a lump in my throat and a swelling in my chest is when I think about all the things he has told me. All the stories, all the truths about the world, all the common knowledge every small town north dakota kid gets. Whatever he tells me, I store it away. Remember it deeply. Often his thoughts pop into my head. Like when I was home last, frantic about a photography assignment I dragged him along to show me forgotten homesteads. The first story was about a feather. Ridin his bike this summer he saw a feather for about five days in a row. And he thought, "hey, I've seen a feather every day. Im'ma count the sums a bitches." I saw a feather today. I thought, huh. 102 feathers he saw before the cold sent the birds flyin.

Take the money and run....