The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing




Tomorrow I do my first shift at this job. Barely is the beginning of everything, I keep reminding myself. 

No need to be nervous which I’m not totally. Mostly excited. And hopeful that a shift, literally, might take me somewhere new and/or add to the mix that is my life presently. 

The second bed here goes today.

Bit by bit, bird by bird, we are merging the households. 

And I saw those same friends again…two plus weeks later…for dinner. It felt about the same. They seem to retain little, like sieves with mesh so large it catches close to nothing. 

I commit to not taking this on as me or mine but theirs. I allowed this and other things to level bring me to my knees several weeks ago, to call to my attention with great clarity that I was lonely and that I needed to make some changes. 

Which I did. 

I commit to finding better connection outside of me with either strangers or friends and better connection to the homes inside of myself too—the writer I am—the artist I am. 

I re-commit to Authenticity, to not taking for granted the word I write above every entry each morning. 

Which is to admit that my first thought this morning, on this beautiful, cool, overcast morning after Labor Day is that I love my Dad. 

I can feel the morning clouds wrap around me, a cozy melancholy. 

And I can feel home…home that I love and home that I miss deeply. 

Home is to be alive. And to be alive is to be awake. And to be awake is to feel…everything. 


Home are the clouds

That wrap round my heart.

Home is my writing.

Home is my art. 

Home is swamp maples.

Home is my Dad.

Home is a childhood

That I am not sure I had.

Home is to try,

To not give up hope.

Home is what saves me

My lifeline, my rope. 

I work on palette, an allowance of purples, blues, yellows, a sunset in my head. 

I work on palette, an allowance of purples, blues, yellows, a sunset in my head.