Fire is a dirty thing. Petulant, wild, prone to fits.
It is in the repetitive ritual of opening and closing the house each day—unrolling the broken shade by hand, wrestling with the deadbolt on the warped front door, seeing age—that I find inexplicable revelations.
Saint John once wrote that perfect love casts out fear. I beg to differ.
I can still remember the first time I lied to my parents. I was seven years old and was obsessed with Indiana Jones.
“So I see you enjoy burritos…” I would say and then stare at my shoes. “ And I observe that you are also wearing… [squinting] shoes… very cool…”
No one believes it. I didn’t believe it, until I grabbed the bumper, tried to lift, and realized I didn’t even know how to grip the thing. I’m writing about an experience I still don’t fully understand, and the sharing of it is even more incomprehensible.
Somewhere around 5:00 a.m. on Saturday, mom will go into Noah’s Ark mode, creating piles two at a time and designating where they will go in the car.
On the way out of the house, the thief’s bleeding hand had grabbed my Bible from where it lay on the floor. There’s a story inside it, one that I hope they read.
Say what you will about jam bands and hippies—Phish fans have enthusiasm. More than the music, more than the thrill of seeing famous performers, I liked the concert for its energy.
