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“No but. Just get back to work and be kind to Frankie. You never know when you might need kindness from people.”
After all we’ve been through, what would I do?”
Ironic since they kidnapped her to begin with.
There is a code among the dying: let the living speak. They have longer to atone for it.
“People will be someone other than themselves if they have people who rely on them,”
You never know what your last words to someone are going to be, and it’s hard to reconcile it when the deed is done and the person is gone.
Words are powerful and funny things, said or unsaid.
Some people, I have learned, are meant to read great works and others are meant to write them. Often, these are not the same people.
Somewhere between thought and ink, the stories held in my imagination dissolved into the ether.
Why do I experience the same fate?
I was still trying to write the next great novel but never got further than a few paragraphs before I gave up in frustration. The words were never right; the language always seemed forced. In the classroom, I knew I wouldn’t need my own words; I had hundreds of years of beautiful words written mostly by the dead.
“I think that we all do bad things, but that don’t always make us bad people.” She stood above me, looking down, the dark skies above drowning out the contours of her face. “Maybe you have bad luck, but there is nothing sour in us. We’ve been through shit, remember. Every one of us alive today comes from something bad done to the family that came before us. You being alive is a goddamn miracle, so no more talk about sour blood. Own your mistakes, make amends and move on. We owe that to those who didn’t make it.”
Time quickens the older you get, as if the universe is trying to push you toward the finish line, to make room for the younger, the stronger, to mark your brief place in history and move on.
“Anger is exhausting. Holding on to it will drain the life out of you.”
The clouds turned pink and purple in the setting sun. A cotton candy sunset, Mae called it.
