I’m celebrating. In a family suite at Little Creek. By a dreamy electric fireplace in dusk window light.
There’s the sound of little boys watching cartoons in another room and Dinah munching food while I sip Grapefruit Pompelini.
Clynn’s at a Poker Tournament. Laughing, I’m sure. Winning? Most likely. Dropping a hand or two out of kindness? Possibly.
I have a gallery up in another tab. One I’m editing and demands my attention as I type this but it can wait. The editing can wait, for you, and maybe a glass or two of Pompelini.
I’m celebrating talking to you, Jane Doe. I’m talking to Jenny and Josie and Jemima Shmo Shmima but I wish I was talking to you.
Here, I can. This place is a vault of memories and non-linear time. The future manifests and the past, long forgotten, remembered and cherished.
Welcome. I missed you. I hope you’re home for good.
I’ll run my fingers through your hair and I won’t care. I won’t care who reads this, who sees us, what people think. I won’t care unless you do. We can live in the woods. The beach? We can live on the edge of a volcano (I have connections for that). Clynn is happy anywhere.
Though, he’d prefer the woods and the Ocean over the volcano cottage. I think.
The subconscious will be this tiny empty realm on the edge of humanity, long abandoned, when we’re finished with it.
Love, will be child’s play.
We’ll share Grapefruit Pompelini and life.
You’ll feel at home and I’ll whisper, we made it.
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