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the empty

The fat girl as they call her, came to school with a hypodermic needle in her backpack. It may have been to defend herself, it may have been to instigate something. She comes from a broken home and this is her second or third school. E steers clear of her, and the bullies she tangles with. It was never understood  - how things began, who threw the first insult, the first punch, the first grabbed book but the end is a chronic cycle of violence. At one point, the girl's mother got the police involved and this was seen as offensive, a step too far. The police did not resolve anything so it was all just a lot of saber rattling. That is the most common sound here. The empty threat.

Last week, there was a sobrani, sort of a cross between a parent-teacher conference and a school meeting. I was busy, so E went by herself and took notes. Five minutes in she messaged me, that I was wise not to be there. Nothing about this girl was going to be resolved.
"Boys will be boys" was all …

the disappearance of imaginary messages

On most days the sidewalks are a lumpy sheet of ice. I have gotten good at tiptoeing across them, sliding, skidding but not falling. E grips my hand as tight as she can and we make our way. I stopped realizing this high wire act has been going on for eight years now. They say you do two years in prison, the day you go in and the day you come out. I think I know something about what that means now.

There was a time when I spent every day forcing my will, imagining an invisible page turning, a phone call, a message and us on a plane the next day. Each day I whittled away at this fantasy, refining it, crafting the language of the message, each time more terse, more empty, more blunt. I know it was spring when I felt this way, maybe three years ago. I was counting the days until our release, based on absolutely nothing but desire.

I wondered if we should empty the fridge, because we would be gone soon. Did E really need new school clothing if we were leaving? Did we need a five pound bag of rice, or a small package? Surely the news would arrive any minute at this point. The words repeated in my head, rolling around like those circus motorcycle acts in their steel cages. 





At one point, I could hardly walk alone in the street without wanting to cry out.

Something snapped.
I smelled ozone and burning diesel the entire night.
The imaginary message disappeared the next day.

Within a week the ideas evaporated completely. There was no defeat, no surrender, no admission. They was simply a light that turned off. The wires were ripped from the wall, the breakers demolished and the door hammered shut. If that room was going to be opened again, it would need to be though the window, climbing in from the balcony.





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