Overheard in Fremont
The men greeted one group member by erupting “Herman the German!” when he walked in the door.
The men greeted one group member by erupting “Herman the German!” when he walked in the door.
For those of us who have never been on the blunt end of sexism (or racism, or ableism, etc.), things can look funny or tragic or intriguingly disgusting when they are actually evil.
Seven years later, I am now in Grand Rapids again, which is a kind of beautiful, full-circle moment.
The house is, by nature, transient.
But now, in the morning as I dress, I am enthralled by all the stories I carry on me and within me.
Under the Madison Street bridge, the tree that grows sideways suddenly popped flowers that smelled like corn tortillas.
I am from this place as much as I am from anywhere, and it’s this recognition that helps me know that I can feel this way again.
I don’t often think about my breath.
There are no miscalculations or extraneous details—things are only borrowed or loaned between neighbors.
Meaning, it turns out, doesn’t always accompany mortality.