Page 150 of Bend

Old houses never really shut the fuck up

Something knocks in the pipes behind the wall, the wind keeps dragging through the trees outside, and every few minutes the floorboards creak like the place is either settling or haunted. At this point, honestly, either feels possible.

Compared to the paddock, though, it’s still way too quiet.

I’m flat on my back staring at the ceiling while my brain decides this is the perfect time to run through every setup sheet I touched today like there’s going to be a surprise exam at three in the morning.

Very helpful.

Then it moves on to the course, because apparently ruining sleep wasn’t enough. Stone walls. Houses. Elevation changes. Blind sections. All the places where one tiny mistake can turn into a much bigger fucking problem before anyone even has time to realize it happened.

And don’t even get me started on the speed they’ll be going.

I roll onto my side and shove my face into the pillow.

“Enough.”

My brain basically tells me to get fucked.

Another ten minutes pass with me mentally taking apart motorcycles that are already perfectly fine, so I finally throw the blankets back before I start diagnosing imaginary suspension problems too. My notebook is sticking halfway out of my bag, guitar case propped against the wall beside it, and I stare at both like they’ve personally volunteered to deal with me.

Good enough.

I stare at both for a second.

Tools during the day.

Strings at night.

Apparently that’s my version of coping with, well, life.

I pull on the oversized hoodie draped over the chair, grab the notebook and guitar, then slip downstairs quietly so I don’t wake half the house.

The living room is dark except for one small lamp beside the couch. I leave the main lights off and settle into the corner with one leg tucked underneath me, the guitar resting across my lap and my notebook open beside my thigh.

The page is a mess.

Half-finished verses. Words crossed out so many times I can barely read what used to be there. Little arrows shoved between lines because apparently writing neatly is beyond me once the song starts fighting back.

I’ve been messing with this one for a while.

It started back in Tampa as a couple of lines I didn’t know what to do with, mostly because I didn’t know what the hell I was trying to say yet.

Now I think I do.

Home.

Not the house Mom and I lived in.

Not the motel, or even really Tampa either.

Something harder to explain.

That weird feeling of finding somewhere after spending most of your life assuming there wasn’t one waiting for you. Showing up late to people’s lives and somehow still being given a place at the table. Wanting to believe you belong while some stupid little part of you keeps waiting for everyone to realize they made a mistake.

I play through the progression quietly, fingertips moving over the strings while I hum under my breath and let the melody do some of the thinking for me.

That part has always been easier.