Not For Sale
Gogo was raised by her uncle, whose last name was Sale, after her mother died and her father left for Africa. Her father never returned from Africa, and whether he was alive or dead she never cared to find out. Her uncle was a large man. He had a strong jaw and head shaped like an anvil – his words had the same sort of weight. Though he didn’t say much, and his house was large enough that they were able to coexist while rarely crossing paths. Gogo told me she could dissolve into a glass of water when he yelled for peace and quiet. The house was on the edge of the Okopai River. When I visited we stayed in her room. If we were hungry we left her house and went to the small diner nearby. If her uncle was in a bad mood we stayed at my place, hiding beneath the covers of my bed so that my parents wouldn’t know she was there. We were safe beneath the blankets, lying close together and whispering about where we would go tomorrow, next month, next year, forever. We read books to each other: Great Russian literature and a few of the American classics, like An American Tragedy when we found it on sale. We read Waiting for Godot, which was one of her favorites, and promised we would see it performed live someday after we saved enough money. We read the poetry of Nikki Giovanni and wondered how so much could be said with so few words. My parents never caught us. Gogo always slipped through the...
Bury Me in St. Paul
It is a warm and humid night in summer. The sound of dogs barking on the street. The sound of crickets from the brush and cicadas in trees. Fireflies flash like tiny cameras through the grass along rows of dark cars parked along the curb.
The Seasons
My memories are made of brick and cement and glass. My dreams are bathed in the waning sunlight of an autumn day. Long shadows creep over fences and pull at the sidewalk as the sun begins to set. My dreams are apples picked from trees and flat piano notes from songs I never learned how to play.
To Be So In Love
A woman said that love is freedom. That love is falling and flying and falling and catching and getting back up together. That love is not what was before, but what will be tomorrow.
When the World Becomes Water
Water is not something you can hold onto. It’s not something you can grasp, or something you can build a house on. But you can float, swim, boat, ride waves like California and Hawaii.