Dear Wigleaf,
I've been packing the truck, the same one that took me to Texas two years ago, and the same one that will take me away. You were right. The boots pinched. The shine wore off.
I feel the same way I did leaving Washington, Oregon, Ohio, Montana, and all the other places. Imagine me your love, or even your guest: I ate all your food, over the sink. I drank your liquor bottles down. I smoked the butts of your cigarettes. If you had something I could take, I did, and still it wasn't enough.
Not really. But you know the way this feels.
On the phone, my mother said, What if you move and you're not happy, there, either?
Even when I was a child I could never imagine a place I would stay. When that fear pounded in my chest I would mute it by picking up my books, one after the other, and running my fingers over the grain of the pages.
I think you know, Wigleaf, that there are some things that don't change.

- - -

Read MK's "The Siamese Twins."

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