My parent's house was on a small street named after my mother's family. This area was once their small farm. At night, there weren't any sounds other than the night bugs. On some nights though, I would stay at my grandmother's house on Marietta Street/State Route 9. I remember being in bed there and after reading a few stories from her book of fairy tales, I would listen to the late-night cars as they passed by her house. It had me forever imagining in a lonely but peaceful way about these people -- where they were going and what kind of lives they led.
There are so many threads that connect us, continuously and continually. Some are as delicate as a spider's silk and some are rough and tough like the massive ropes that lash together big barges of coal on the Ohio.