Some say the Fool is the first letter of the ancient alphabet, which is a silent letter. It is the in- breath before we chose to make the very first sound in the universe. It is everything and nothing. It is all that we are. We are the beginning of every journey there is, laughing, open.
This was my list. Spilling fast and true on the page.
It felt like devotion and free-falling.
These were my days. Strung together, loopy and imperfect.
They tasted of salty caramels and oysters with frosty glasses of beer and bazooka iced tea.
There were fake tattoos, hers and mine. There was the night he played the guitar on the front porch under the strawberry moon.
And in a haze of change, there was still the joy ride of just her and me with the sunroof open and windows down. Singing “Killing Me Softly” until our voices cracked through a maze of yellowing corn.
It smelled of clary sage and steamy pavement after a rain and her skin with the sunscreen slathered on.
There were days carried by 16 airplanes, a hammock and one dream catcher of pink and gold.
It looked like treasure hunting in back alleys and junk stores and the pages of magazines.
It burned. And ached. And smoldered on.
And in the end, the ravens cawed and the bee stung fast and hard. The medicine of this season.
And she said, it may never get any clearer than this.
It was a summer to remember. Jubilee. The Summer of Freedom and Love.