+ welcoming.

It was sometime like October. Apples mushy in the backyard, under our shoe in a lawn of high-waisted grass. There were frowns and something dependable, always a glance upward. The sky, peeling then like a potato, as if to be another color, a moon, or the wrong time of day. Always in December at sometime, towering the tree, we associate red with holiday, with fever, wrapping our dinner table, the hands we’ve cornered, that we’ve mustered clasping, just so in scene we are held. And amongst a “family” I thought, like something you rig and cast off, was a “boyfriend” or a moment, a body bent against and away from skin, as if appalled, and I remember sheets crumbled because, a ruined image of home, or the exaggeration being on holiday.

notes