Dirt roads with stones that you’ve named old names and skipped across rivers on ranches with five fences and three fences, and gates that must be closed both times. Fishing alone. Broken windows of old homes, that have moved from states and close places. Tiny flies and spiders that live and mate in guitar cases, and travel as we do, and are happy with where we place our suitcases in closets or in lockers with keys in the side pockets, purses with lipstick that tastes tangy, a little awkward, but pretty good for an afternoon snack.