six mile cypress

“What are you afraid of?” he asked me, as we walked a boardwalk across a northern portion of the Everglades. The swamp was still, trees rising out of solid green algae. He told me the water is moving, slowly, slowly, even if we can’t see it. Otherwise, we’d be swarmed by mosquitoes.

I said the only thing I could think of, growing old and feeling like I’ve never done anything worthwhile.

“So it’s like a big existential thing?” he asked, and I said yes, I guess.

We won’t see each other again, probably, but the conversation will stick like glue in the whirling pages of my mind, when he told me across our mimosas that my job was important because I am writing the narrative of this life, something I forget amid city council agendas and zoning restrictions and voter demographics.

Cities rise out of bureaucratic language, and lives are shaped by the settings in which they take place. Our stories are intertwined with each other, and with the land, and I will seek the truth in this life.

I am still searching for what that means in the humdrum days, the paperwork, the accusations flying from mouths of political figures, the floods and the earthquakes, the sense of connection shattered, when one soul turns away from another.

The Lumineers played in my car the whole way home, “The strangers in this town, they raise you up just to cut you down.”

if my blog seems unsure what sort of a blog it wants to be… it is.

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