without you, i tend to think about frog rock.

i grew up in a tan, beige and red house. it’s blue now, there are fewer tress out front and more weeds out back. i live in a different part of it (sometimes, at least) where the windows are smaller, the bed is bigger, and there are two closets instead of one.

my first room was blue and green, i painted it that way. the window was big, it was wide, and the sun streamed into it relentlessly every morning.

no wonder i woke up at 5, 6 am in those days.

in those mornings, winter ones, summer ones, (fall and spring we skip over, in montana)

the sun would rise behind frog rock.

frog rock was dubbed frog rock because it looks like a frog, frog clung to the side of a mountain, its head pointed to the sky, as if its trying to keep itself from slipping in between the mountains.

a road, a river and a railroad wind their way between those mountains.

and what was once a beautiful, dramatic, almost scary vision resting on the other side of my bedroom window is now a right of passage on the road to you.

an indispensable part of our journey to find one another.

but i’d rather leave frog rock behind. i want to forget its mystery, i want to forget the awe, i want to forget its place between the two of us.

i don’t want to pass it to get to you

and if we do have to pass it,

well

i’d rather we do that together.