A nervous anecdote shared between sets.

February 18, 2012

Today you wake up early, restless in your childhood bed. The house is still and windchimes ring outside—hollowed metal swinging the sound of home. Your dog paces anxiously behind your door, nails scratching and slipping on the hardwood floor. Together you step outside and watch the fiber of your breath collect in the cold air. You leave the path, ignoring the crusted prints of other’s boots. You want to step in fresh snow, because you know no one will ever step the way you do, like this, again.

You have a place in the woods that you go to, that you’ve always gone to. It’s not secret or hard to reach like most people’s places. It’s in the town’s periphery—a heap of moss and crooked saplings and tree limbs razed carelessly in ice storms. It’s where you would stop to rest on your trumpet case, your legs crossed like bent straws, your palms pressed into wet leaves and pine needles. It’s where you thought, “Okay, I’m doing this, I’m really doing this,” while you had your first kiss, warm and unwieldy. It’s where you escape when you find yourself home now for the holidays, a funeral.

Your dog finds it first. It’s spread evenly across your clearing, partially crusted into the frozen earth. You think seeing it might very well change your life forever: a complete skeleton, all accounted for. You want it to be hanging on the invisibly clear strings of the Natural History Museum from a high ceiling for everyone to look at and think, “This creature was once alive! With blinking eyes! With a balloon bag heart pumping pumping pumping blood!”

Your dog circles, squats, and pisses on the skull.

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