@Writing from one bar

I’m sitting in the road.

It’s a county road with one bar of service a few hundred yards from the soggy springtime campout where in four short hours I’ve stuck my commuter car in the mud and downed whisky and watched teenagers flirt and remembered past years.

Mostly I’ve wondered at the reality that is no cell service unless I climb a steep hill and sit in the road, in this case alone with a plastic cup on my knee and a spider strolling over my boot.

No service means I won’t wait for responses. I’ll send greetings and love and reassurances out into the works and not hang for a reply. I’ll pocket my phone and soldier on with only my own thoughts and the people I can lay eyes on.

It’s weird and a relief. A weird relief.