She spent most mornings in a state of beauty. Beginning with a smile she then opened her eyes to the fresh sun as she barrel rolled out of the small, comfy bed. Now on her feet, she tipped, tilted and rolled around the room in a dance that reacquainted her bare feet with the earthy wood of the floor. The motions spontaneous and erratic with grace as if truth was always present.

The entire situation was covert. Random Friday afternoons would require a bicycle ride to the corner. The first real block of the area. The communique was always tense. Difficult to decipher. A striking yet watered down red colored by yellow, never orange. The message would be paid for by one of us. Eventually the path would appear and we would all move on, alone with the burden. Once understood the individual mission repeatedly brought satisfaction and a sense of momentous relief. Satiated again until the evening broadcast.

She was nearly incapable of making a decision. So, we lived in a car in the northeast one summer. We would regularly go to the same tiny health food store for breakfast and a potty. She would stand in front of the repurposed ice cream freezer staring at the Amy's burritos and make this clicking noise with her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Her lips pushed out like she was smooching the emptiness of choice. It made me crazy. I really just wanted to leave her there and eventually I did.