top of page
Maybe it's something like witnessing two men, fathers, doing and saying everything men do and say in the moments before violence, at 3:20 p.m. on a Thursday, in the circle drive that borders the Outdoor Classroom where the pre-schoolers play, and saying only, before shutting the car door and seeking help, "Our children. Our children are right here."
Maybe it's that sunk desperate whirling static chaos in the twice-spilled coffee in two minutes, the hour burned searching for a password to an account that's irrelevant anyway after all always already.
Maybe it's that telegraphed silence that means a friend's forgetting your rhythms.
Maybe it's a sudden awareness, with certainty, that there are only stories, which is mostly good, except when there's no one needing a story right now.
Or maybe it's the small lie: "Yeah, I'm getting used to the flames."
bottom of page