art, real life, and garbage day

It's been at least 8 months since I have forgotten to put the trash cans out for garbage day.  But today, or maybe last night, remembering garbage day was too much to ask of me. I heard the truck pass this morning just as Fisher walked down the driveway. He ignored what he knew and kept walking. What's it to him anyway? He is 16. 

Sunrise over the back 40 at the R & B Farm SLC

He came back from Idaho in what seemed more like an escape from East Berlin than a hand-off. He came really sick and overworked. A day late for school and too sick to attend the next.

I can hear the overflow of frustration from a long summer in his mom's household each time he slams a cupboard too hard. Each time he ignores a dog barking at the backdoor. Each time he ignores basic household rules or politeness. 

His mom and stepdad are on the verge of separating. Right at the end of the summer his mom was ready to move out but changed her mind at the last minute. Fish says it is only a matter of when not if. It was why he almost didn't come back. He has younger siblings in that household that he worries about. He worries about his mom.

Sunset off the deck of the Solle House, Moab, Utah

I try not to nag him. "Fish, remember we put out knifes blade up in the dishwasher so they don't cut the basket." "Fish, please remember to lock the slider." "Fish, please remember to let me know when you change plans at the last minute."    

Sunset off the deck of the Solle House, Moab, Utah 

Last night I told BC a friend was asking about him and had asked "How long has he been gone?" My answer was 10 months. BC corrected me, "It's only been 9." *long hard silence* "Yeah, or 10 months," he muttered, "either way it has been too long."

I picture desert roads rolling off into the night. I picture the white tents of the story telling festival rippling in the light breeze. I picture the silky air at fifth water just as the hot pots come into view. 

What is the point in telling you the truth if you aren't listening?