I am usually not one of those people who can easily figure out which part is right and which part is wrong.

I meet Darrell, or Becka hours and hours before the sun comes up. They accidentally peel each finger down slowly counting, one, two, three, four.
And you sort of hope that by accident, by 50/50 chance, you will do something right. Open or shut mouth at the perfect time.
Take down notes
feed yourself lists
remember to set alarm clocks
and you pray, "God, who knows my name, how big thou art. How strong and sensible. How you know where I am and tomorrow, and the next day." And still you forget to take out contacts from your eyes at night.


But then. There is the small glimmering mile by mile.
i-80
highway leading back to joy, to sorrow, to the only real.

In my mind I see the stretches, and for sure, I will do the only thing I possibly know is right.
Get back in a van.
Go back to Iowa. To Illinois. And fall deep into the arms of someone who needs to never let you go.