03/27/2023 2 By BuddyCushman

Back when I was drinking I’d like to drive around, killing time on a Saturday night, with a beer cracked open between my legs, the rest of the six-pack of talls over there in the passenger seat. I’d listen to oldies. With every mile traveled I would tell a lie. To the six-pack. To me. I could write a short story – “Each Mile a Lie.”

This morning, driving from there to right here, my head was filled with truths. Today it’s more like, each mile a wonder. And so far today, a surprising lack of stories, the “I know what’s going to happen”, the “I know how I’m going to feel” stories. Call them ancient stories. But none so far. I drove the five or six miles home, I sat for a bit over 15 minutes, I took the calendar off the wall and wrote something in April. I did a few of the things this room encourages, and will leave for a walk in a few, hopefully all filled with the wonder thing, and then see how this Monday goes.

I already had a post written last night for this morning. Then this one waved its hands.