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Eighteen was the age that Julie and I planned to both buy
our own farm and hit the road, in no particular order.
[haven kimmel]
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-Some people don't fit in, and they resent it. They spend so many years wondering what's wrong with them, and later what's wrong with everyone else, that they forget the way they were made, they forget how to sing until the warmth in their throat reaches their core, they forget how the feel of dirt against their flat palms makes them happy in an intensely private way. That thing happens to them, the thing that happened to Hitler, the thing that makes you want to control and hate everybody else instead of letting your heart settle to the sound of pencil scratching on paper, your own singular worship.
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She isn't like that. Her head is at a different angle than everyone else's, tilted up slightly, the same angle most likely favored by ancient queens marching to their doom, but I think she holds her head like that because she likes looking at the sky. When I walk by her we smile at each other. She never pretends not to see me, the way I do to other people sometimes. After our eyes meet, I tend to glance up, just for a few seconds.
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I hope we walk into each other when we're both in our forties. Someone has to hold me accountable, after all. I hope I'm driving through a town I haven't been in before and I see one of those parades with a really cheesy theme, like the Corn Queen Festival, and I pull over to watch the fire trucks and buy one of those corn-themed shirts that I never can resist.
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I'll see a really stunning woman waving from the seat of the Cornmobile. Her hair is, appropriately, like corn silk, and she has what people call a million-dollar smile (for reasons that are mysterious to me). I raise a hand to wave and then I notice the woman walking next to the car, throwing candy to the children. She's smiling with her mouth closed like people with really good senses of humor, people who tend to keep secrets. She'll look me right in the eye, and finally I'll remember the horizon.
