I’m bogged down with 540,903 pages to edit before 5PM, so this will be quick.
Here’s a picture of me and my dad.
He wasn’t allowed in the delivery room.
I wish we still had that couch.
Here’s a picture of my mom and dad at their wedding shower. He’d just said something a) dirty; b) inappropriate! or c) dirtily inappropriate.
Here’s something I wrote about rain:
It’s my favorite brand of rain tonight: gutsy, fierce and ghoulish.
The kind of rain that begins historical dramas with bonneted girls and boys snug in bed within a stone manor, where a fire blazes against a black cast iron soup pot while outside a lone darkish silhouette trudges up a wind-whipped, tree-lined pathway, travelling wearily and soon to fall prey to a headless horseman, man-wolf or Jack the Ripper attack, after which his head, limbs, or heart rolls soundlessly down the cobbled walkway to bump gently against the manor’s wooden door jamb, only to be morbidly and maybe gushily discovered by the chambermaid sweeping bits of crumb from the hearth outside.
Here’s a poem:
I remember you, pacing the corner
in all your rumple
Fingers corkscrewed in your hair
like a lure in a fish
Mouthing the fervent soundtrack
to a movie in your head
Come out of the corner
to stand with me here
The movie will be over
and you haven’t seen a thing
Sorry. I know — why didn’t I just shoot you?