On main street in Sharpsburg the man who always sits outside is in his usual place, and I wave to him on the drive home. After eating in the sun, and the books and the pet store. My sister and I talk about it and I tell white lies on the phone. About how I’m still coming to Utah and how I’ve found a place to live, but I can’t go there yet – the truth, but slant. I keep hoping I’ll know what to do on Monday. It’s spring, and I mark the time by the dead deer with necks twisted back lining the sides of the roads. Since yesterday, the ugly parts stand out more.
Tonight I went to the river to visit my friends and help them make a campfire. Something I’ve always been good at – arranging sticks, even green ones, so they go up in flames. We toast marshmallows and I sit close to the ground, so my face is hot. They leave for a little while, and I watch the flames spread alone and listen to the spring peepers. In the creek beside the river they are deafening, and I want to cover my ears on the walk back to my car. But I leave them be, and let the cries pour in – I know what it’s like, to be small, to want to make noise in the world.