December 2


Here at La Quinta for a week now, the same beige walls of the hotel room, the same drab carpet, the same continental breakfast each morning. Supposed to hear word on the car this afternoon, & with any luck we may be able to leave tomorrow. Walla Walla yawns all around us, the strange & desolate beauty of the Palouse with their rolling wheat fields, otherworldly, cloaked under a thick mist in the figured distance. We’ve seen blue sky twice, maybe. Cloud & freezing fog appertain, a garb we wear constantly here. & outside the window, the rusting silos of a granary, train tracks that random people walk from time to time, their heads bowed down, looks of strain on their faces apparent even from here. The freeway bridge humming all hours. A birdless sky.

We have our routines here, the long-term hotel residents that watch people come & go each day. They serve warm cookies at 7:00 sharp in the lobby. We are on a first-name basis with everyone at the front desk. We have done our best to make our time worthwhile, running each day, going to free wine tastings, lingering in our conversations with locals from time to time, but all the same, a week in one room is enough to weigh anyone down. Read it over even Willa’s face—time to go home now. Time to get our lives in order after all of this shift & transit. Well. & cross your fingers we can.

Until then, finally able to post a picture of the barn above.

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