Back and forth, to and from our parents’ houses. Eyes closed on the highway to the city. Corduroys, cigarettes, scratched CDs. We were certainly onto something.
Things aren’t like that anymore, and that’s alright, but these two keep showing up- mostly without surprise, always without question.
Our lives are different, now. And the bodies that keep hold of them are showing signs of wear. Inside and out. In and around the 40-year mark. We own our things. We love our people. We are certainly onto something.