1. They slide black and white codes across my desk, and I file them in separate plastic folders, secret them to the gas station and open them again to relive with them what thoughts and cares surfaced while they moved a pen across their lives, plowing and planting.
2. My fingers haven't touched strings in many weeks, and this "later...later" I use to pacify the song folds the laundry and keeps the house picked up, cooks some meals, and I pray through all of it, domestic paeans.
3. We read our stories, and I notice her little body like a furnace, her hand twisting my hair in rings the way she's done since she was a baby. The thermometer reads 101, and I wait for the clean sun of summer to warm us healthy and golden again.
4. I read all of Alice Walker's Hard Times Require Furious Dancing. I listen to Jose Gonzales' "Crosses" and Thomas Newman's "Any Other Name." I practice vocabulary: inchoate, fulsome, coruscate, disport, importunate. I am preparing myself for listening, for comprehension.
5. Did you see the whole world erased, and will you rejoice when God paints it again? Let's dance then together, you and me. Let's mudlucious. Let's seed the world. Let's waterfall and drive the truck I haven't bought yet to a national monument and when we get there, let's feel monumental, too.