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Tuesday, January 11, 2005
December Birthday —31 It’s suddenly December and the beach road knows— how rust-colored trees lean over us, sunlight strobing through. It’s “Slow Hands” through Crawfordville with our daughter strapped in— swinging beads, swaying her body, shaking her head to the beat and Paul’s lovelorn protestations. You hum along, quietly. It’s decidedly December with Ochlockonee Bay at neap tide— a lonely dock stretching over the dank sand— cloud mountains ever ahead— over the coastal pines, over the tidal flats, over your porcelain face, my finger floats behind your ear where your half-broken glasses rest. It’s us, framed in the rearview— my face and right side of yours— reflected and together. You smile knowingly. |