how do you write? she asked… …well, sometimes…I said… I take my head off and put it on the desk, I’ll smoke three thousand cigarettes drink seventy-six pots of coffee and wait until it says something to me. she laughed… I continued: yeah… sometimes it talks for hours, sometimes it talks about dogs about cats about the donkey I had as a childhood pet… …how we would race together every day after school down the fence line… and how he would win every time and he’d take a victory lap around the pasture feeling very proud of himself, haha. I never stood a chance. she laughed…and I go on: yeah…and sometimes it talks about my father about learning to mow the grass in a straight line, and how he could mouth a cigarette while he taught me how to be a man… …to sit up straight and be quiet in church, to hold the door open for women, and how to change the oil, the spark plugs, the belt…and when to decide it just wasn’t worth the effort anymore. she was quiet then, waiting… I said, sometimes, it talks about death in a living room floor about… about what? she asked… well, sometimes it talks about my kids, about the pumpkin patches, about the baseball games, Christmas lights and snow angels and reindeer food and how I always took the bite out of the cookies we baked for Santa clause, how I always left a note telling them how special they are… and how proud Santa was. she smiled….but I continued… sometimes, it talks about how I adopted the oldest three at the wedding, how we became a big beautiful family, how over the next few years me and their mother would drift apart… about addiction… about affairs… about the ongoing divorce… about how I can barely see my kids anymore… about… about what? she asked… Well, I don’t know yet, I say…. That’s about the time I lift it off the table and put it back on my shoulders… because I’ve ran out of coffee and cigarettes… and I damn sure can’t go on without that.
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