...Already we'll all float on/ alright don't worry even if things end up a bit too heavy/ we'll all float on alright....
Daily, he grows thin, despite the wet food, softened with warm water that I give him, two spoonsful at a time four and five times a day. His legs are unsteady beneath his meager weight. I carry that frail body with me around the house when he craves my company. How long, how long?
(For any of us, how long?)
I should be memorizing lines, but with one weekend left 'til close, and the audience (it seems) none the wiser for my clipboard cheat, I read instead, fifty-year-old Bradbury; his mournful music echoes in my mind.
For the first time, I am invited into the mobile cavelike dwelling that houses my husband when he's working, taken for a ride down a road neither of us had explored before, introduced to the beast he wrestles through weather and timezones, working to keep us safe and fed and happy.
I leave some DNA behind.
(Float On, Modest Mouse)
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