I don’t like smoking because it feels like drowning on dry land.

Still – earlier today I was sitting in the grass under a tree, smoking one of the Newports I confiscated from my sister. Weeks ago.

I spend a lot of time thinking about names.

A “new port.”

New settlement at the edge of the water, where sailors set foot on land for long enough to trade. New town, new city. New place to call home, at least for a while.

Which adjectives would you use to describe some new where, at the very beginning?

How to give a place a name…

Who’s out here doing the naming?

The folks who got there first. Or the folks who *think* they’ve gotten there first, anyway.

Sailors. Cowboys, cow herds. Astronauts. Folks who persist in wandering, who insist on having adventures without ever truly settling down, who aren’t at home most of the time. Folks who return after years at sea and find children who’ve grown so much in the intervening years they no longer recognize their own kin, except maybe the eyes.

Songs like “close your eyes I’ll be here in the morning” or “gentle on my mind” only exist because of this specific kind of person.

“You’re home! Tell me everything“

&

“You’re leaving again. So soon.”

I’m still at home, crossing off the days on a calendar that’s hanging on the wall the way my sister used to do that. Cooking, eating, sleeping, walking. Passing the time.

That’s alright with me.

I’ve never really wanted to leave home.