Delia Owens

diurnal in this lair.

“Go as far as you can—way out yonder where the crawdads sing.”

The words in poems do more than say things. They stir up emotions. Even make you laugh.

And this one by Galway Kinnell.
I did care. . . .
I did say everything I thought
In the mildest words I knew. And now, . . .
I have to say I am relieved it is over:
At the end I could feel only pity
For that urge toward more life.
. . . Goodbye.

“Am I your girlfriend now?” she asked.
He smiled. “Do you want to be?”
“Yes.”

His desire to protect her was as strong as the other. Sometimes.

Listless, she wondered what she had done to send everyone away. Her own ma. Her sisters. Her whole family. Jodie. And now Tate.

Tate and life and love had been the same thing. Now there was no Tate.

“Why, Tate, why?” She mumbled into the sheets, “You were supposed to be different. To stay. You said you loved me, but there is no such thing. There is no one on Earth you can count on.” From somewhere very deep, she made herself a promise never to trust or love anyone again.

She wished for someone’s voice, presence, touch, but wished more to protect her heart.