. wayside on these roads .

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I have letters in my hand, letters telling me happy chanukah and your car insurance is cheaper by $95 and your bill for $20.90 was covered by trigon and you are loved and so is Hemingway. I have letters on my desk, letters telling you happy wednesday and cold cold evening breezes are enclosed and silence is good for now and you have an apple and a hug waiting for you and I wanted to come Sunday but you had company and my place is away but I hope not for long and I love you and I miss you. These are not all to you, but most of them are. I have so many books to send so many places! Soon I will have money to do so and that will make me tired and happy. Right now I am just tired and much younger than I was before my mother called me at work this morning to discuss her growing-up epiphany as I re-wrote the yearly budget proposal. These days before January make me eight and weary of the remembered routine. No-one pushes me around - I do that just fine on my own now, and it doesn't take much of a reminder for me to get into step, head down, hands in my pockets, fingers playing the keyboard like the half-step faery in my ears (but only late at night cold feet alone; most of the time now must be spent rationalizing my previously well-thought-out adult but now impulsively childish plans). For them. And me? Yes. Here I stay 'til Sunday, end of December.