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streetlights

There is no easy way to say it. I was married to someone I hid from. Tucking E into a sling, I would disappear for hours saying I was going shopping for dinner, and if she fell asleep the excuse was that she needed fresh air as I sat on a park bench with her tiny hand grabbing my pinky until she eventually woke up. I would make my way along the side streets of Greenwich as the sun went down, leaning into store windows but not going in. Eventually I would go home, and as I turned the corner there was a security light that would switch on - obviously attached to some motion sensor. In those strange and lonely moments, I would talk to that light. Each time it clicked on, I felt somehow that the night ahead could be survived no matter what madness waited for us behind the front door.

That was twelve years ago.

Another life, another country.

Today, I turned a corner in Moscow with an all-too familiar bag of groceries swinging from my shoulder. A street light flickered on and all at once I…

this is Monday



Fifty souls, and surely more when the day is done. Mothers, sons, uncles, loners, school teachers, some with tattoos, some with red hair, some in a favorite pair of boots. I can imagine the warm air. There was laughter and cold beer. Then, people running wild, down airport runways and filling the streets. The pictures come. The gritty videos. The screams. The slap of the gunshots. In all of its ugly, unvarnished truth, this is our world and this is my country. 

This is Monday.






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