Mike turns around—the Mike I’m writing—goes to a book, one of Kerouac’s. Thought he’d bring something different, like the Sea pages or the Dream Book. But no. Road. Seeing himself as Sal, needing an inner Dean not so much, but a self-embracing quietude about character. Regardless of age.
My kids on couch starting their Sunday, talking to each other and watching one of the dozen or however many Harry Potter films. And me here typing, Emma saying “Daddy are you working….?” I tell her I am and know I need stop, go over there and become part of their lazy Sunday way.