and the cat’s been beheading the tulips. I rescue them for the vase and think of O’Keeffe colours, the drive up the rutted track to the writer’s cottage, the enormous sky and the red chile sauce over a wrap of fries, Dave the barman acting Chekhov, lazy talk of the abstract greats and distant LA. I remember drinking beer with a guy, perhaps he was the age I am now, and saying we were heading out in the morning. I joked he should come along for the ride and he shrugged, said there was a time he’d drop everything, go anywhere just to be moving. But now he just wanted to sit on the porch and drink beer. I’m not there yet, there are places and things I still want to touch and see. I’ve miles yet to go, when the curtain lifts.
