I live in a world where everything is possible. A world in which I am able to wear my Stetson where I please. On a day like today, when the professor is out of town, and the still life is mine to arrange for the students, said Stetson is the focal point of twenty freshman drawings, and maybe they think I’m alright. And while they draw their wonky drawings I can look up through the sky light, seeing just a square of an evening expanse caught in the lovely mystery that rests between pink and orange, dying alive and reminding me of the evening her and I shared speeding along the Dam, smiling finally to the music. Singing a silent sigh in our minds. Or the morning she drove me to the airport, confused and mistreated.
In my world, the cockroaches have names cause they won’t go away, laughter comes when it shouldn’t, and nobody tells me when to go or come to bed. It is a place I have chosen, where ever, but it seems it is always miles and miles from where I truly want to be—a place beyond the Western ridge, where even more is possible, even the impossible. Where the girl who got away comes back, to say I just thought you might want something fine. In that world, the paradise, she doesn’t get away, and the sky stays between orange and pink not forever but for just five minutes more. At night I dream, and to her I say time has bridled us both, but I remember you too. And in the morning, I ask God and the coffee to pull me up by both sides alive.