the roads

today during a Quaker school tour the school's director described the surprising way some very active kids instantly get hold of the practice of silence that's part of the school's daily life. she said that even one particular kid whose motor runs high standing still would sink into the silence and go right into the place of being in the back seat of a car on a long drive, staring out the window, slack jawed. living in the world of imagination, of hopes and dreams and random, useless thoughts that are sometimes pretty too.

it reminded me of the poetry group I was part of in high school, late mail poetry. there were some phenomenal poets, many of whom I remember fondly or am still in touch with, and many who have slipped through the cracks. one kid whose name I can't remember wrote a couplet that rhymed, something along the lines of:

now you're driving much too fast
the guardrails are flashing past

today Juniper asked me if I remembered the time she and Clementine were sick and we all sat on the couch with a blanket and watched Dora. age four and she already knows nostalgia.

I guess it must be a state of existence.

later on the tour I skipped out to put money in the meter and got turned around trying to rejoin the group. I circled a couple of times through the second floor, wandering a bit aimlessly (turns out I needed to be on the third floor, but it was a large, somewhat disorienting space).

when I'd done this for long enough to be noticeable, a petite girl I later learned was a seventh grader approached me, struggling under the enormous weight of a cello. "do you need help?" she asked. in the background I could see an administrator watching our exchange closely. I looked into the girls' eyes, not really sure whether or not I should say yes.

"let me just put down my cello," she said, and lumbered away, only to come skipping back unburdened. Together we climbed the wide set of stairs, trailing our fingers across the white white walls.