We write to build. To rebuild. To forgive others. To give the same to ourselves. We write oflonging, and languishing. Of love. And regret. Of easy days. And jobs that are not. Of pinkhaired old ladies at the grocery store. Of hope. Sometimes. If she isn't dead. Of pulling off ourflesh, and sounding ourselves loud. Of birds that sing in broken song, and coyotes tastingmarrow from our bones. Of the skin of us. And scars that hold. Of a lake thatowns us. In which we could drown. Of her persistence. And our own.Of the things we carry. And the space we hold.Of snow in August, under bare feet. Of the rise and fall of indifference. And of something inbetween. Of yellow fucking tomatoes. Simply because they exist. And how we stand in July.In grays and blues. Wet with rain. Warm, and barefooted. Steady and slow.This is a story of coming home.