Pa's house is cold. Cool, like the underside of a rock. Did I mention this before, about Pa's house? And what is this, me calling Dad, Pa? Did I write once that Pa and Pal were so close, but couldn't be farther away? That the L made all the difference?
The house is dark, just outside the city. I can't help but think the dogs would have liked it out here, running through brambles, bringing the smell of branches inside the house, that is, if Dad/Pa let them into the house, which he wouldn't have, he was never one for dogs, especially "big" ones.
This wave I'm riding, where does it really begin? Where does it end? How far onto the beach will it take me?
I can't say that "riding" this wave has been comfortable. I am saving money. I am away from all the ruckus. But my commute to work is 16 1/2 minutes longer and I have not concocted a single butter since moving in with Papa. Papa, now that's one way to say Dad.
I cannot walk to the library. Or walk in the cemetery. And me and Dad, we must begin again.
Homes: "If you begin and it is not the beginning, begin again."
Curt: "I will begin again."
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