Timshel

April and Violet prepare to leave Goodland as something different.

I take the towel from my hair and let it hang over me, wet and more than a little unsettled in a pleasant way. I snag it into a ponytail, and it drapes in a frizzy mess behind me. I look formal, but I don't mind it. My blue blouse is tied to my chest like a bodice, and a knee-high black skirt lies below it, flowing like the endless Kansas night skies. I even picked out my sole pair of unscuffed (unused) black heels. I don't know what restaurants there are in Goodland, but I hope they're white tie. I also hope they don't have a policy for scarves and against neck scars because I am not changing this for the world.

I leave the bathroom, walking to the living room to assess my bag. I’ve packed nearly everything away, but somehow I’ve left with less baggage than I’ve entered. I take Amie’s journal out and set it on top before zipping it closed. I’ve already filled a few pages over the last few days, whether I’ve struck poetic gold or discarded rough drafts is yet to be seen. It’s amazing how time flies, that we’re heading home soon. I almost don’t want to leave things behind; the garden, the fields, the hammock, the setpieces for time spent underneath each other’s skin, learning each other in new ways. I’ll even miss your father; my fascination with his learning process and progressive sermons fueling many poems, and your efforts to repair your relationships fueling my respect and love for you. I don’t know what us back in Wyoming looks like, but it’s an exciting progress. It’s the idea of leaving Goodland that startles me, because we’re all leaving chapters of our lives here, letting them burn in the dead cornfields.

I find you lying on your bed, door lazily creaked open. The covers are still strewn over you, your leg sticking out, fast asleep. I shake my head and start to walk over to you when I trip over your almost completely packed bag. I nearly fall, cursing you mentally for this rampant mess, when I see the red handle of the knife sticking out of it, almost exactly the same as it was when I first saw it. I shake my head, smiling fondly, finally understanding.

The commotion wakes you up. You groan, stretching, throwing your blanket off of you. The commotion wakes you up. You groan, stretching, throwing your blanket off of you. Even though you didn't even bother to change out of your jeans and tank top before napping, you look like you'd never known the waking world. It's not as sad as it used to be- as disheveled as you are next to me, you're at peace. “Shiiiiit,” you groan. “How long?”

I think for a second and hold up two fingers, sitting next to you.

“No, how long til he gets here," you repeat, slowly inching into my personal space, silently daring to ruin my perfectly organized look.

I hold up all ten fingers, saving my breath since you're close to taking it right now. You groan again and whine “I wanted to sleep in. Just tell Papa that you knocked me out or something.”

“I'm sure he'd rather not know about that,” I reply. You reach for my hair, giggling, but push yourself up. I go to the closet to find you the plaid button-up shirt you wore on day one, and you dig around for longer pants. As you put them on, I leave the closet for the last time, and you look me over and wolf-whistle. It's kitschy but charming, and I blush. You finish dressing by pulling your indistinguishable boots on and stand next to me, wrapping an arm around my waist carefully, looking at me.

“We're far too late for careful courtship,” I tease you, and you lean down to kiss me softly. I rest my hand behind your neck, tracing your collarbone, but you stop me, hand on mine. I pull apart and look up at you.

“That's a little…”

I look at you patiently, my eyes pleading for your response.

“Just a little creepy.”

I nod and wait for you to take my hand. You move it around your waist and look me in the eye. “That's much better,” you say, repeating it as we settle into our routines. “Much better. Thank you. I... this is nice.”

We hold each other there, lost in time, taking it all in. “This is happening,” I say.

“April showers bring May flowers,” you reply, and I laugh, even though it sounds like pained wheezing. “It was the one good line I ever wrote,” you bemoan.

“Well, when you barely write,” I remind you. You smirk and lean down towards me again when I hear the honk. You nearly leap off of me, careening out of the door, snagging your bag without missing a step. Amused, I follow.

“You said he wasn't gonna be here for ten minutes!” you accuse me as we run together, time running out but just beginning. I laugh quietly as I grab my bag with a firm grip, and follow you out the door, the fire burnt into coals. The car is here, and he keeps honking, but even from here I can tell he's grinning. The trunk’s open for both our bags. We fit them in, and I take the notebook into my hands, keeping it safe against my chest. You launch into the front seat, and I take my time settling behind him, hugging my knees after I drape my skirt over them.

“Good evening, senoras,” he says, turning the radio down. “I'm glad we've got the family together.” You smile, and since I can tell there's a shake to his voice behind the confidence, I smile too, even if he can't see it.

“Hey, Papa,” you say, looking ahead. “Yeah, glad I'm here too. You never know, I might actually miss this place for once.”

I nod my head vigorously as if that will make it louder. I see David smile in the rearview mirror. “There's a diner just downtown we can go to on our way out. Not a drive-thru stand, and certainly no mere McDonalds.”

I sigh in relief, and you proclaim “Thank God.”

“It was his idea, actually.” His straight face only lasts until you creak your head over to him, and I watch your disbelief turn into relief when he cracks a grin. When you start laughing, I laugh- the joke's admittedly as abysmal as you'd expect from an awkward father, but charming for the same reasons.

“Was that a joke, Papa?” you ask, incredulous. Finally, he laughs, confirming it as much. You shake your head, but any tension that was left entering the car is gone now.

It becomes quiet, to the point where I can hear the radio. It’s not a sermon this time, but music, quiet folk music I remember from my high school days, the type of music I pumped into my veins like an IV for life, when I worked to build a desire to live without her, and with all my demons. In some ways, it hurts to hear, but the shame dissipates, because I’m on my way to better ideals.

“And you have your choices,” I hear. “These are what make man great, his ladder to the stars.”

A long-lost elixir turns into a new indulgence. I find myself rolling the window down, letting the wind brush through my hair, dust and all. Only there's not as much dust as I've dramatized. The surroundings are plain, but in a country sort of way, the monotony keeps it unified. There are some people sitting on porches with each other, or lighting a smoke alone. Children are playing in yards and stray cats are making a kingdom out of this tiny town. When we get closer to downtown, the homes break into quaint stores with hand-painted signs and government buildings no higher than two stories. What I once thought was a burnt-out dust bowl remnant I now see through new eyes. New blood runs through every buzzing streetlight, finally giving us some nourishment, the sun at its peak, a new day at last. There isn't a crow left to be found.

I look at you and smile, and you return it. David notices you aren't listening anymore and shakes his head, but looks endeared. Somehow, nothing more needs to be said.