thirty-two weeks gone.

14_11This is the last time I’ll write one of these. In five days I leave Scotland for the next big thing, the next weird adventure. I’m not quite ready to announce what that is, but in some ways it’s safer than coming here and in other ways it’s a whole new set of risks and chances.

Yesterday I took a long walk. I was behind a little family, a mom and a dad and a young boy. As I watched, the boy doubled over and put his hand to his mouth. His parents stopped and watched him. And then he started laughing. Laughing, laughing, and he pulled his hand away from his mouth and held his palm up to show them. A little white tooth. He’d lost a tooth. The mom laughed, took it, put it into her pocket. The dad was overjoyed. He ruffled the kid’s hair. He kissed the kid on the top of his head. He put his arm around the kid and pulled him close.

Next I walked through a little street fair on Castle Street and a man behind a booth gave me a little pink rock. He handed me four pieces of oddly-cut wood and told me to make a square. I couldn’t. I try, and I couldn’t.

It’s for luck! he insisted.

I tried, I said.

It’s good luck if you can do it, he said.

I left the pieces on the counter. I took the rock. I held it in my hand like a tooth. I waited for praise.


photographs taken in Skye with a Minolta X-700


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