Jennifer told me that night, and my wind escaped me, taking my fine muscle control with it. Tears welled as she held the little plastic rod, and she wrapped her arms around my neck and sobbed. It took a second for me to return the gesture, maybe out of shock, or joy, or terror, or all.
After so many years of trying, somewhere inside telling you it wasn’t going to happen.
I continued reading from my position, him from his, creating a canon of lyrics that wove into each other. It wouldn’t be like it was before—with this misleading belief that all upward climbs lead to a summit where you can suddenly see all of Arizona stretched out before you under a pale, blue, spotless sky. Those climbs are best reserved for metaphor, a way to end a story in a tight little bow. In truth, the upward climb may never end, but each step you take brings you higher, gives you a broader, deeper, more beautiful view than the last. There is no summit, no end of history, but the continual effort will yield a continual result.
“You can’t cross a large canyon in two short jumps”
Life exists in channels, dad used to say to me. When you’re happy you call them
grooves, when you’re sad you call them ruts, but those are just synonyms for the same
phenomenon, the physical manifestation of habit, a series of tracks that we move
through in life. Human beings are powered by habit, and so the development and
maintenance of good habits are critical to a long and healthy life. Dad knew this better