How Are We Going To Find Unity If We Remain Divided?

The clearest path toward unity excludes name-calling and violence. It requires listening and hearing, which involves faith and trust. Can we do it, America? #AmericaDecides2020 #Election2020results #BidenHarris #TrumpPence #CountryOverParty

— Michael Rohrer (@michaelrohrer) November 8, 2020

I tweeted the above thought and question this afternoon. Just after pressing send I thought about my own character in respect to the question I'd posed, "Can we do it, America?".  I replied to myself: "I will struggle with this also. It's been a tough, divisive four years. But we have to be willing to try."

We do have to be willing to try, don't we? I admit that I don't even know how to begin. I will have to seek guidance from those who are more willing and open than I. 

Four years ago, there were so many tears and so many broken hearts amid the shock and confusion of the 2016 election results. For all of those who believed their prefered candidate would win, there was an overwhelming sense by a majority of the country that one of those candidates didn't have a chance. 

We were wrong.

Donald J. Trump was a disruptive candidate from the moment he stepped of the escalator in Trump Tower on June 16, 2015 to announce his candidacy for the office of President of the United States of America--disruptive because it seemed like a publicity stunt; a stunt because it had the potential to pull focus away from the other candidates and the issues they wished to address and their positions on which they wished to state.

As the campaign season gained momentum and Trump became the Republican nominee for President of the United States of America, one swath of Americans felt empowered by the lack of restraint with which he used his words. Another swath sat stunned in a state of shock. The Empowered and the Stunned took completely different approaches in this moment. The Empowered seemed to revel in the nasty frankness while the Stunned settled into the assumption that this bully of a man, with his name-calling rhetoric, couldn't possibly defeat the candidate which they felt was more than qualified for the job.

Surprise! Complacency and inconceivability gave us president Trump. And while many in our country felt that Hillary Clinton was an untrustworthy candidate ill-considered for leading our country, Trump managed to alienate and irritate more Americans that this writer believes Clinton ever could have. However, we will never know if Clinton's presence in the Oval wouldn't have continued to widen the gap in our already faulty division.

Trump traverses in lies and conspiracy theories. He rarely has proof to back up the accusations he so readily spews via his tweets or from the podium at a MAGA rally. He is the Supreme Leader of Misinformation. (Thankfully, Twitter began adding alerts to his tweets about false and misleading information.) 

As the results of the 2020 presidential election began to hit news desks around the country, Trump began to regurgitate, more viciously than he did during the days leading up to the election, his lies about voter fraud. Determined to win even if he had to cheat by saying the other side was cheating.

The other side wasn't cheating. There is no proof of voter fraud. Those who count the votes are bipartisan--Republicans and Democrats coming together to accurately and properly count the votes. Because of Trump's false claims about mail in ballots and absentee ballots leading to fraud, news outlets and social media outlets began to add fact-check flags and misinformation notifications to election related posts in an effort to clarify how the process works, how it has always worked, that it is currently working as it should, and how there is no proof of voter fraud.

True-to-form, Trump's rhetoric led to his most rabid supporters showing up at ballot counting facilities, demanding to be let inside in order to supervise what was already being supervised. Many even arrived with their guns in tow. (And the Left has been deemed a radical mob. Insert eyeroll here.)

With Joe Biden declared the projected winner of the presidency in the United States, there was a flip in the reactions on both sides from those of 2016. 

Dancing in the streets, cheers, noise, and happy tears erupted from those of us excited--and relieved--to find the Trump presidency at its end. But those who support this most divisive, alienating, distracting, and unsettling president ever--although he is fond of saying he's the Most, the Greatest, the Best--reacted with the disbelief that I myself felt four years ago. A major difference is that, while I was shocked, I never suspected voter fraud. Russian interference, yes. But I believed our votes were cast and counted...accurately and properly.

So, back to the question: "Can we do it, America?" That's a big question. And it has no easy answer. I don't even know how to discuss Trump's blatant lies about the election with my Republican family members, let alone his actions over the past four years. The idea gives me agita. I get angry at the imagined conversations (or arguments) in my head, which are based on our previous conversations, or from what I know about their beliefs. If this is the case for me regarding my family--the people who know me and are supposed to love me--how in the world am I then going to be able to listen to what scares (or angers) someone about an America under the leadership and guidance of Joe Biden? 

Unity lies closer to a middle ground than our country has found itself leveled on for many years. The flames of division have been burning for too many of those years, but Trump threw fire on them and stoked them until they burned with a fervor that sent people running to the edges in search of like-minded harmony. Separated by these flames, our country has become the Divided States of America.

Trump seemed to only want to represent those who were loyal to him. Biden wishes to be the President of all Americans, not just the Democrats and not just those who voted for him. Can we swing the pendulum back toward the middle? Can we shake hands and agree to disagree instead of making fists and calling each other names? Do we have to continue blocking the path just so those who oppose us don't get their way? Can we help each other?

The man who wants to lead us ALL said, "[Trump supporters] are not our enemies. They are Americans." I would add that Biden supporters are not the enemy. We too are Americans.

How are we going to find unity if we remain divided?

I'm Biden My Time

I'm sure most of us have heard the saying, "Patience is a virtue." Boy do I find that statement hard to implement. Patience is hard! I could give many examples where needing to have patience nearly drove me crazy, but I don't think any would be as timely as the Mud Puddle of Patience we're all treading water in called the American Election and the Cult of Donald Trump.

I woke this morning with the old Gershwin tune "Bidin' My Time" running through the suburbs of my dreamscape. 

I'm bidin' my time,
Cause that's the kinda guy I'm
While other folks grow dizzy
I keep busy
Bidin' my time 

Firstly, it struck me as funny because of "Bidin'" and Biden. Then is struck me as apropos because of..."Bidin'" and Biden.

I'm one of the "other folks" in this scenario unfortunately. I have grown dizzy with frustration and fear as I've watched, since Tuesday evening, American democracy continue to be undermined by a man who has done nothing but sow seeds of doubt and distrust for longer than his four years in the office of the presidency. He's a snake oil salesman from whom many have purchased his bottles of piss.

My hands were shaking last night at dinner. Not even the lovely glass of French Chardonnay could help. They outwardly mirrored what was happening on the inside--2016 PTSD showing its ass. I was tied up in a knot that seems to only release when I'm asleep. Thankfully, I can sleep. Yesterday I found myself sleeping a lot. It's probably a sign of mild depression brought on by mental and emotional exhaustion due to the state of our country in this time of chaos and crisis. I don't like the idea of being depressed, but I am grateful for the sleep.

Bidin' time is a lazy kind of patience that seems to only exist in a world when the stakes aren't this high, but bide it I must--we must. I wish I could take a pill for patience. I have struggled with finding it for years. I even have the Chinese character for patience tattooed on my left forearm. Beyond reminding me that I needed more patience in my life, I used to joke that I would rub it as a reminder as if to release some magical power imbued within its ink to calm thereby strengthening my ability to deal with stress and anxiety.

That tattoo should be rubbed off by now.

I will admit that Joe Biden was not my first choice for the democratic nominee for President of the United States. Bernie Sanders was not my choice either. But I struggled. After eight years of my country's first Black President, Barack Obama, I feared that we, collectively, would not elect a woman. My fears were proved right when Hillary Clinton, even after winning the popular vote, failed to secure the electorate and become the first female president of the United States of America. 

With all of that in mind I looked at the viable candidates and saw: two old white men, a white woman, a Black woman, and a gay man. Jesus Christ! I couldn't help but wonder who the people of the United States would support and rally behind. I mean, this is a country that elected Donald Trump as its "leader." I didn't trust my own judgment, and I certainly didn't put my trust in the American people. As far as I'm concerned, many of my fellow countrymen let the country down when they cast their vote for Donald Trump.

After the sun had set on Tuesday, November 3, 2020, my best friend and I tuned into CBS News to watch the election results. The excitement and hope for the possibilities began to darken just like the night sky as we began to see the map of our country once again awash with red. There are those guaranteed states that one knows will be red. They always are. But after fours years of bullying, mockery, lying...I couldn't believe the overwhelming support for this candidate. That piss must go down so smooth. I wonder if it's better as a shot, sipped, or mixed with one's favorite juice or soda? 

On Wednesday night, November 4, 2020, peaceful marchers in Massachusetts marched with signs reading, "Count Every Vote," while Trump supporters gathered outside an election center in Detroit, Michigan, chanting, "Stop the count!" and "Stop the vote!" Why doesn't EVERY SINGLE AMERICAN want every vote counted? P.S. the vote had stopped. Unfortunately, Donald Trump used the words "stop the vote" (I heard it with my own ears) and it seems there are those who can't quite understand the difference between "vote" and "count." 

This is chaos. And patience is not easy in the midst of chaos. How patient can one be if he happens to find himself stuck outside in the middle of a hurricane, unable to find cover, unable to move, digging deep to find the strength to wait it out. Patience is a virtue indeed.

Joe Biden has called for unity and for putting the nasty rhetoric of the campaign aside. Donald Trump, on the other hand, has filed lawsuits and continues to push his false claim of fraud. 

THIS. IS. CHAOS! 

My anxiety is through the roof. No amount of deep breathing or long soaks in a bubble bath seem to alleviate it for long.

How did we get here? How did the least Christ-like of presidents wrap the Conservative "Christian" Right around his finger? 

President Barack Obama sang "Amazing Grace" after delivering the eulogy for Rev. Clementa Pickney, in Charleston, South Carolina in 2015. Rev. Pickney was the victim of the bullets let loose upon those attending a Bible study at Mother Emanuel church in what was deemed a racially motivated attack by Dylann Roof. I saw our former president deliver his eulogy and sing the old hymn that comforts so many. It was powerful and emotional. It showed empathy and sympathy. It connected with dormant memories from my youth when I was a follower if the Baptist faith in Kentucky--a dogma that I no longer practice and a faith in which I can no longer believe.

Donald Trump posed on June 1, 2020, for a picture in front of Ashburton House, the parish house of St. John's Church on Lafayette Square in Washington, D.C. after it had been damaged by fire during the previous night's protests over the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The photo of this man holding a Bible left me numb. Even though I no longer read it, do not give it any credence, and do not believe it should have any influence over the laws of our country, I still somehow approach it with reverence. (That's a little fucked up, I realize.) So, to see this man who bullies, mocks, and lies holding up a copy of that book in an effort to appeal to his supporters without doing anything to assuage the racial tension happening steps away continues to leave me cold. 

We are living in the Divided States of America where I believe Donald Trump has conned his way into the hearts of too many. I can't help but be reminded of Matthew 7:15, a verse in that same Bible that I know longer read, which states: "Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves." This is Donald Trump: selfish, fake, destructive. He has used his platform--twitter, MAGA rallies--to empower those who feel he sees them, identifies with them, hears them, supports them. He has opened the door for their deeply held religious beliefs to explode into the room dressed as the hate that it truly is.

To say that discord will remain in the United States of America regardless of the outcome of the election is unnecessary. We know there will be. And with social media providing us with information both true and false, our phone and computer screens will continue to deepen out relationships with like-minded people. To say there will be an uprising in the streets if all of the votes are not counted is almost certain. Don't you feel it? And how Civil might this War be?

(P.S. our taxes count as filed on time as long as they are postmarked by April 15. Why should our votes be any different? If they are postmarked by November 3, during a pandemic when many don't want to vote in person, why shouldn't they count? It seems obvious.)

It is time to remove the cancer. It is time for a leader that isn't going to fire you if you disagree with him. It is time to heal. It is time to sing "Amazing Grace" and mean it. It is time for empathy in the face of so much social and civil unrest. It is time to trust Climate Science and medical professionals. Isn't it time for America to be better than it is instead of treading on the false pretense of Making it Great Again? When is Again? What about now!   

I don't know what's going to happen with the 2020 election results, but I'm holding out hope. Patience is hard, but I'm Biden my time. As Jimmy Kimmel tweeted on election night: "This is like being awake during your own surgery." Ouch. But true. This is painful, but I'm optimistic that healing will begin once the tumor is removed.

Two Weeks & Twenty-Six Cents

When I was younger, two weeks could seem like an eternity. What about for you? Did the two weeks leading up to Christmas drag on forever? And what about the two weeks before your 16th birthday? Or the two weeks leading up to the end of the school year? Weren’t the hours endless? Of course, there are exceptions to this prolonged waiting period; e.g., the two week break I used to get during the Christmas/New Year’s holidays when I was in secondary school felt like it only lasted a couple of days. 

Back in October of 1998, I found myself unemployed for an indeterminate amount of time. (Kind of like right now. Except, right now, I “kind of” have a return-to-work date even though it keeps getting extended.) I worked in the box office at the Century Center for the Performing Arts Theatre; an off-Broadway performance venue where the most recent production, Stupid Kids, had closed early (October 4, 1998) and there was no replacement waiting in the wings.    

I took a Greyhound bus from the Port Authority in New York City to Nashville, Tennessee. At that point in my life, taking the bus was the only way I could afford to take the trip. It was an adventure—a 24-hour adventure 😳. (And one that I didn’t relish repeating for the return trip. I’m just sayin’.) It took roughly three more hours by car to get to my ol’ Kentucky home. But I got there…with no responsibilities and no plans.

During that visit, I felt very creatively fertile. Every morning I made a pot of coffee and perused old journals, searching for those soul bearing moments that might make a good country song. Some days I didn’t change out of my pajamas: no shower, no real clothes, just focus and flow. My parents would leave for work, and I would pour the first cup and sit down in front of my mother’s computer and start transforming adolescent thoughts into lyrics, hoping I might be composing A, if not The, Next Big Hit for country radio.

While stardom was something that eluded me, mostly due to my own lack of motivation to chase it, that time in my life is a warm memory cloaked in fuzzy slippers that is at once comforting and melancholy. 

Two songs figure prominently in my memories from that visit: “26 Cents” by the Canadian country group, The Wilkinsons, and “Wide Open Spaces” by The (no longer Dixie) Chicks. While both were favorites before, they became touchstones for me...and my mom. And remain so to this day.

Two weeks had expired when the time came for me to return to NYC. The Century Center had a new tenant. I was employed again. Memories fade. And while mine is pretty solid (ask anyone who knows me well), I don’t recall a flying-by feeling. In my memory, time marched at a steady pace—not too fast, not too slow. I remember feeling free and dare I say, happy. That’s not a feeling I always feel when visiting Kentucky.

At the Greyhound station in Nashville, my mother gave me an envelope. She asked me not to open it until I was on the bus. I was extremely curious what was inside, but I waited—like I used to have to wait for my grandparents to arrive on Christmas morning before I could unwrap anything. Once the bus started moving, all deals were off. I opened it.

In my hands I held a lined piece of notebook paper where, in her perfect left-handed cursive, my mom had written the chorus to “26 Cents.”

When you get lonely, call me

Anytime at all and I'll be there with you, always

Anywhere at all

There's nothing I've got that I wouldn't give

And money is never enough

Here's a penny for your thoughts

A quarter for the call

And all of your momma's love (9-16)

Below that she had written her own message of love and encouragement. And at the very bottom she had taped a penny and a quarter.

Cut to August 3, 2020. The COVID-19 pandemic has left me unemployed, isolated, afraid, and with limited access to my fremily (that chosen family of friends) for nearly 20 weeks. 

I was supposed to take a trip to Kentucky in June for a wedding that got postponed to August. When I changed the flight I decided to add an extra week to the stay. I mean, why not? I had nothing better to do. And sure, after 23 years in New York City, country living in the southern part of the United States is something that I can only take in small doses. A week teeters between just enough time and an overstay. It all depends on how I let outside factors affect me. But weighing the options, a large back yard and a pool seemed pretty charmed even if I might have to deal with Trump-supporting politics. And lest I forget, momma’s hugs and home cooking would be beneficial perks.

My mom might be the one person in my family that I allow myself to be vulnerable enough with to have very frank discussions. I push. She listens. Sometimes she has advice. Sometimes she doesn’t know what to say. I often wonder if I make her uncomfortable with my statements or questions; if I’ve pushed too hard or too far. I probably over share. But she keeps smiling at me, hugging me, loving me. I don’t know how she does it—(This must be where All of your momma’s love comes into play)—but I’m grateful that she does.

For two weeks the days were filled, each turning to night without me seeming to realize it was happening. 

My mom and I took three-mile walks almost every day. In that freedom of companionship and exercise, we talked about many things: the pandemic, people’s reaction to it, people’s inability to respect others and wear a mask, other frustrations, the fiction I’m writing, the soap opera Santa Barbara, my love for the soaps in general. We talked about the past, the present. We questioned the future while also looking forward to it. We huffed and puffed and challenged ourselves while sweating through our shirts. 

We played card games almost daily: Rummy, Five Crowns, Karma. We laughed. We quibbled. (One is prone to quibbling and deep sighing when a winning streak seems to be consistently elusive. Trust me, I sighed. I sighed so much.) We ate Milk Duds. We ate the fresh blackberries that we picked from the garden. Picture it: Arlington, KY. 2020. Me picking blackberries in a garden. But I digress.

The inevitable question: “What would you like to have for dinner?” was usually asked before we had even decided what we wanted to eat for lunch, and was usually met with an exaggeratedly humorous response along the lines of, “We haven’t even eaten lunch.”  But the duck, the chicken, the steak, and the pork chops were all worth the early decisions when they made their way from the grill to the table to my mouth. 

Sitting side-by-side on my parents’ sofa, my mom and I battled for the win playing Words With Friends. Books were completed and new ones started. Homemade ice cream churned in the garage, its hum becoming white noise until it stopped. Hours were spent cavorting in the pool: sliding into the refreshing coldness, tossing a volleyball back and forth, sitting on the bottom, attempting to keep a frisbee in the air—fifty-four times was the record between my sister and me. 

We found family relics that I thought had been inadvertently discarded by me long ago. I had resigned myself to the sadness of their loss, accepted I would never see them again. Yet there they were in a storage tub in a large closet in the basement of my parents’ house. I was overwhelmed at seeing again this bonanza of sepia-toned pictures and daguerreotypes; images of family members I couldn’t possibly know and that no one still alive could provide information about. I was beside myself to once again hold the hand-written document noting the births and deaths of the family from which my own maternal line started five generations prior. My excitement was contagious and my mom caught it. 

We consumed hours of television: The Golden Girls, Friends, Santa Barbara. We watched Jurassic Park and Scream.

Sleep came. And, for the most part, it cast us deeply in its shadow. Morning brought a new day, a fresh pot of coffee, a mug of hot chocolate, and a question of what to have for dinner.

We washed, rinsed, and repeated our way through two weeks. And even though those two weeks 

contained the same amount of minutes and hours as any other two-week period, they seemed to fly by. I guess it really does when you’re having fun.

As we get older, time no longer marches at a glacial pace. It speed skates. There is no way to slow it down. Our task it to enjoy every moment. That’s all we can do.

As we said our goodbyes outside the small regional airport in Paducah, Kentucky, I thanked both of my parents for the welcoming opportunity to freeload at their house and told them I loved them. Mom always gets the last hug. That’s the way I want it. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a penny and a quarter and placed them into her hand. She looked down at what I’d given her and continued to smile even as her eyes filled with tears. History repeating. A full circle moment. 

Now that I’m back home in NYC, a two-week period of self-quarantine begins. That’s because I’ve returned from a state with increased rates of COVID-19 transmission. Time in isolation is rarely fleeting so I’m betting this two weeks will inch along like an airplane sitting on the tarmac, 24th in line for takeoff.

“Who doesn’t know what I’m talking about?” The Chicks ask in “Wide Open Spaces.” Who doesn’t indeed. 

Room 14

Ragged breath. Gasps fill the quiet room. 

The breathing stops. No sound. Silence. 

Inhale. 

Relief. 

His sentinels sit. We watch. We listen.

A melody sings out easy. A husband, to his love.

“The landslide will bring it down.”

The dread is heavy, the uncertainty thick.

There is no hope. But there is love.

Visible. 

Abundant. 

Resignation hovers. The inevitable approaches. 

Peace will come, leaving sadness in its wake. 

When tethered no more, this will be the down.

Remember.

Now soar.

©️Michael Rohrer

July 29, 2020

Christmas 1995: A Memory

I drove through the night. Snow was falling like the steady rain of summer storm. As the yellow dividing line disappeared under the white fluff, so did the dark paving of the highway. I was traveling as fast as I dared, which wasn’t fast enough. The headlights illuminated the snow as it pelted my car giving the illusion that I was driving through an avalanche of stars.

I was headed to my momma’s house for Christmas. 

Christmas at momma’s house: the anticipation, the excitement. Remember? There’s an ease to it, a comfort. It’s childhood and cookies and surprises: memories flooding the mind. 

At that time, my momma’s Christmas tree was decorated beautifully with ornaments both old and new, standing proudly in the living room. I can see it in my minds eye filling the corner by the front door, the lights glowing with a beauty that’s hard to match at other other time of the year. 

On this particular night I wanted to be at her house desperately. But the snow was slowing me down. I was scared and frustrated. But I kept going. Moving forward with caution.

When finally I arrived in Arlington, Kentucky—in the wee hours of the morning, after an arduous journey from Bearcreek Farms in Indiana—I was met with an excitement I could actually feel in the air. For you see that was the year my aunt Cindy and her family spent Christmas at my momma’s house. I’ve seen my mom very happy on Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day many many times—she has a childlike joy during the Christmas season—but that year was like a Brady Bunch Christmas. And as crowded and chaotic as it sounds like it could have been, it wasn’t.

It was amazing. 

I quietly walked into the house to find the living room floor strewn with blankets covering sleeping bodies, pillows supporting resting heads. Aunt Cindy awoke as did momma. They came into the living room where my sister, April, and cousins, Casey and Whit, had all stirred awake from a half slumber under those blankets. We sat talking in the glow of the white Christmas tree lights: alive, awake, happy. It couldn’t have been more special.

The snow fell that night. And Santa delivered his presents. The house was warm and filled with love. I don’t think the lights on that Christmas tree have ever been more dazzling.

Time spent together with the first people who love you is special and as we get older that time becomes more rare...and even more precious. 

As Christmas morning approaches take a second to step outside and feel the magic in the air on the Eve. Look at all the beauty. See it...before it disappears. Laugh, hug, eat, tell stories. Remember.

Merry Christmas 

Frozen, Broken, and Hearing the Lyrics for the First Time

I feel as if I heard the below lyrics for the very first time today, and in hearing them, I see exactly where I am in my life...

You only see what your eyes want to see
How can life be what you want it to be
You're frozen
When your heart's not open

You're so consumed with how much you get
You waste your time with hate and regret
You're broken
When your heart's not open

Mm, if I could melt your heart
Mm, we'd never be apart
Mm, give yourself to me
Mm, you hold the key

Now there's no point in placing the blame
And you should know I suffer the same
If I lose you
My heart will be broken

Love is a bird, she needs to fly
Let all the hurt inside of you die
You're frozen
When your heart's not open

Mm, if I could melt your heart
Mm, we'd never be apart
Mm, give yourself to me
Mm, you hold the key

I hold key but I'm stuck in a cycle of fear and self-loathing with a near continuous inability to be vulnerable. I seem to be unable to truly forgive and I never forget. I definitely feel broken, frozen, closed.

Subway Stories: An Observation Toward Forest Hills

He sat next to her on the hard, orange-colored seat in a Queens’s bound subway car, fanning her with a bright pink fan covered in white leaves. He was 65 if a day. The light glinted off his 80s style herringbone necklace. His beard and mustache were close-cropped, well taken care of. His backwards facing cap said Nike.

Her age was indeterminate. She might have been younger than he but from the looks of her, cigarettes and, I don't know, drugs maybe, had taken their toll. She was still attractive in a worn kind of way, but she seemed worn down, tired, but more than tired. She seemed spacey. She grabbed a scarf from her backpack and dabbed it across her face. I couldn't see the wetness she must have felt.

Her bleach blonde hair was brushed straight back from her face and gathered into a short ponytail. She was wearing all white. She looked fragile and vicious all at once.

The sores on her leg could have been from over-scratched insect bites. Or cigarette burns. Or they could have been the broken skin of a shin bashed too hard against a coffee table. But to me those glaring sores looked like puss-filled ulcerations the can result in over-active drug use.

Her face was made up. She seemed the type to never leave home without it. But it wasn't garish. Just enough. She knew what she was doing. Her eye lids were lined with long fake lashes that didn’t quite fill the expanse of the full lid. They were generously covered in black mascara, which accentuated the empty spaces on either side.

She leaned over to him and kissed him gently in the cheek. He turned his face so that his lips met hers. Another kiss. He loved her. I could tell. And she loved him. He continued to fan her, loose wisps of her bottle blonde hair blowing back and forth in his created breeze. 

I had heard her mention Forest Hills in her cigarette-choked voice when they first sat down on the train. But Forest Hills didn’t seem like their final destination. 

I never heard his voice, but watched him listen intently to every world she said, fanning, fanning. She closed her eyes and lay her head on his shoulder. I watched as he pulled the bottom of her shirt dress down over a thigh he must have felt was too exposed. He would protect her until he died. I knew it. I bet she knew it too, even if she did seem slightly languid at the time.

I wonder where they were going with their five bags of stuff? I wonder who they were? I’ll never know. 

Exit