The Promise

by Damon Galgut

Home used to mean only one Thing, not a blizzard of things at war.

A poisoned, unwell atmosphere overshadows the house, somewhere between melancholia and boredom, though the day has a glassy clearness and a crisp breeze is blowing.

everything that can be described can also be made harmless.

The outing has turned curiously flat.

Astrid says nothing, though mean little subtitles flicker within.

there are limits to one’s awe where airports are concerned, something about the bland impersonal halls renders the people in them not quite human too.