Lessons From the Kissing Booth

I thought that I told you a story about a tall tree with antlers halfway up its trunk, left there by a deer that had lain down to die years before at its base. The tree grew up around them, absorbing the antlers and raising them above the earth, branches made out of what branches had never been made of before. That story always makes me think of flightless birds, about how they must look up and see their more evolutionarily endowed relatives and wonder what it is like to leave the ground.

But...no. I would have told it to you watching the sun come up and make a new proposition to the land, only it looks like I mentioned it off to the right of you, on the typewriter or in a letter or written on a sugar packet in someone's diner.

Still, the antlers can wait. There are always new sunrises.