Walks home in the dewy morning. Skipping along the line between tempting and potentially dangerous. Everything about her was spring: refreshing and new; my Indian summer after months of cold. We found solace in the nomadic lifestyle, drifting from city to city; driven by curiosity, successful through serendipity. Trains and buses and cars full of strangers, but we somehow always ended up near the ocean. Star child, mother earth. She gave me a feeling of what I'd always been missing.
I always spent my dimes on the jukebox instead of the pay phone. My mama never worried about me. If she had the chance, she said, she'd do the same. Jesus on the dashboard, map in hand, his hand in mine. If we weren't leaving, we were always on our way. Empty hotel sheets, afternoons on crooked porches, half-empty bottles of gin. Our time together was a sleepy summer dream that I never really woke up from.
Summer hats, freckled skin, midnight Vespa rides down dirt roads. After a while, you get used to the salty air and sleeping on other people's couches. I knew that if I didn't leave then, I'd never get out. Life is an act of letting go. In our search for a place to call home, I think, ultimately, we found it in each other.