Category: Everyday

The children are chirping at the bus stop, fed on their parents regurgitations. "Are you Spanish?" "He doesn't look Spanish." "He looks Asian!" (What does that even mean?) Will they ever questions their categories? Will they reject pre-chewed fare one day? Will they fly and go look for solid stuff? And what have I fed my little goslings at home?

I found a lightning rod today, a subtle, soul-grounding stake, copper clad and conductive      to the bone. I grabbed it, felt a lone charge surge to heaven and melt again      to earth. The outcome: threaded like a bobbin, a resignation never to be so uncommon again.

He descended from the Prices   of Albion, Michigan - a humble lineage if any. He   descended the Mississippi river to the namesake state:    a dry, yankee fish; descended from a radar technician    to a night watchman, from a full-fingered man    to an amputee, from a boisterous firebrand who played a mean hand of Spades    to a wafer in a hospital bed, gagging at the  wretched    machines. Then, he finally ascended. "There shall be no night there: They need no lamp nor light of the sun, for the Lord God gives them light. And they shall reign forever and ever." - Revelation 22:5

4.5 A gasp and a cry. Thumping up steep stairs. (Too steep. Stupid builders!) “Creak,” shouts the landing. The end of the      hallway groans. Shuddering with sobs, my boy is waiting      for a savior. “Jesus is keeping you safe.” Fears stilled. We douse the bedside lamp. Darkness pounces, never slinks,      into the room. A preschool imagination fires a million synaptic           candles. Sleep quenches them -      one then 10... Later I pause at the door. Hairs on my neck exalt themselves - What if he’s not alone? The panic of a four-and-a-half year old throttles me.        And ghouls and goblins        and bad guys and grey wolves         parade through the…

Smiles and wrinkled noses, the traffic light changes      my heart turns over as I pedal down for home.