For years in America, I didn’t feel nostalgia, or I thought I didn’t.
One night. […] I found an old CD someone had once gifted me. […]
[…] For an hour and a half on that dark highway, I cried word by word, unable to grasp a whole line. Nostalgia didn’t return as memory; it returned as vocabulary.
[…] And then there were the days when something larger happened. A line for water. A funeral. Children sledding.
I was on call during one of those.
Trucks and cars arrived all at once. […]
In the middle of it was a boy, maybe twelve. Awake, breathing, in shock. A chest wound bleeding.
I picked him up and ran. […]
[…] imagined an endless ski chairlift slowly moving up a mountain, each chair carrying two people […]
[…] it occurred to me that the image was not entirely absurd […]
We board. We ride for a while. We share the ride with someone special. Then another chair arrives.