Learning to ride, falling down, getting back on
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I stopped writing, but nothing else stopped. The days kept getting longer, then shorter, then longer again. The bombs fell, then stopped, then fell again.
It’s temporary, I tell myself. Then I remember that’s true of everything: the blazing fire; our two gray cats; my lovely wife with her long graying hair. If only I never lost sight of this. If only I didn’t shut my eyes except to sleep.
A late night walk on the beach, Drambuie or bourbon, the dreaded Carrot Lady
A still birth, a recipe for orange duck, a young professional pianist
The thin wall between this world and the next, midnight letters, warm milk and molasses
A rouge wave, a hand-bound journal, a Catholic priest
The night sky outside my window is so watery I want to backstroke into it, sink beneath its silver-flecked surface. I am sad and it is beautiful; in this, we make a good marriage. I imagine my parents up there now. Sometimes I miss them so much I’d do anything to have them back. I keep a large color photo of them on my bureau so they can watch me dress and undress every day. I no longer care if my father sees me naked.