I will plant myself at the end of my driveway.
Like an old friend, the chatter of a suburban world just past bedtime will hold me in conversation, like it had when I whispered, knowing my kids were dozing just above the garage, two in the same bed, there because the other one was.
My crazy will flutter under the beam of the lamp, dissolve into an old comfort. This spot, where I pulled my knees up inside my arms, believing that newness in the world was an old letter finally finding its way to my home, will be different. My crazy will attach itself to the moths and crickets dancing outside of me.
Thoughts will be of a friend whom I will soon visit, and what I will say. No wisdom to impart, just a punched ticket and a lot of miles. He’s five years behind, and has no idea what the end of a driveway brings.
Thoughts of someone else. Easy thoughts.
I will watch for shooting stars and feel at ease with my crazy. The planning, the parting, and simpler things, like smiles and painting and dancing, will come easier here. Being with me comes easier. Sleep comes easier.
And I will wait for my crazy to return in a fox’s whine or the hum of the freeway. I will wrap it up in humid summer air and see it to bed.