Salad Days
Maybe it was seventeen years ago. I was running 140 kph on a limit of Perryville that was for no more than 104, windows down, “Wish You Were Here” blazing on the stereo of a silent car, out to Caledonia. But like the album, there was no joy in my heart; this was a belated farewell to a state I’d loved and lost. In a few months, I’d be in New Hampshire for gods know what. This space — openness onto nowhere in all directions was not theirs. The sun opened vistas of remarkable majesty, mingled with the distinct odor of freshly mown hay, cow and horse shit.
I believe it was around 13.00 when I thought, “maybe I should never leave.”
