Graying
The grate creeks and I move to step off, but it snaps under my weight. I’m falling. I thought I could grab the side of the sidewalk, but I can’t.
The grate creeks and I move to step off, but it snaps under my weight. I’m falling. I thought I could grab the side of the sidewalk, but I can’t.
Don’t look back, keep walking, project confidence, don’t run, keep calm, almost there, almost there, almost there – RUN! Lose yourself in the crowd!
At dinner, we held hands and prayed out loud at the restaurants. Everyone did. To different gods.
I had no cell phone service. No way to leave. I had ridden here in the back seat of a minivan, lurching through miles of winding and branching dirt roads, through a night black with trees and dust and stories of fights.
I went to Denmark. For my first trip to Scandinavia. In January.
The semi-employed anti-hero of this tragic sob-story did what we all want to do but cannot because of various reasons, mostly time-related.
Today, he is known as “the father of gynecology” and is loved for—as his statues say—“treating empress and slave alike.”
In my afternoon with wizards and troll farts, I collected electronic sparkles, almost broke my neck, and unknowingly imprisoned myself and my younger brother.
I sent the email at 3 p.m., and at 3:05 I wondered how they would get the blood from the seats and I couldn’t get it out of my head.
I was wrong. I am eating crow. I need to figure out how to be a part of a world that seems too strange and treacherous to believe.