The Arbuckles

My father's favorite place is somewhere between Norman, Oklahoma and Corinth, Texas. The arbuckles. A granite quarry. Stretches and expanses of highway, carved through slabs and jaunts of wild and amorphous rocky crags. We could build a house on top of here, he says.

The mesquite trees vie for attention, gripping the bends and breaks of the crumbling structures, they stretch their limbs to the sky, oblivious to the thick and dripping heat. to the way the blue quivers and weaves in the sunlight. To the way the clouds roll and disappear.

This place, he says.

Makes me so happy.

Fortune and veracity (blessings)

Traveling in Europe makes us feel lucky. And we notice. What luck, we exclaim.

That we are here. That we get to be here.

That, there are these things.

All of these things, and all around us.

Everywhere.

To see, and to feel. To experience.

The air in Venice, the night in Rome.

The way the light reflects off the Mediterranean and bounces onto the walls of Saint Tropez.

Where all the famous guys took their brushes.

Meanwhile,

Back here, it rains in Richmond.

And I tell myself,

Remember.

And think,

The rain that rinses my windshield and the air that smells like sunlight.

Blessings, fortune, and the sheer luck

of knowing ( and feeling)

our lives