It hurt to try and open it.
So, I did what I’ve always done
and went to a pub to read a book.
Only this time, I was in the book.
The bar was full so I stood in the corner
and ordered a dark beer.
The noise from the many conversations
faded, as they always do when I read,
but when I touched the book it felt electric.
“Here I am,” I thought. “About to read my own story.”
But I couldn’t do it. I opened the book to page 62.
Hell, I even took a picture.
But I couldn’t read my short story.
I couldn’t even get beyond the second line.
I’m not sure why. I don’t know what happened.
I’ll most likely read all the others and never read mine.
i drove to my father’s house in Massachusetts. a group of us made a large dump run for my step-mother. we even pulled the old pool table out from the basement. i held onto one end as a neighbor cut it in half so we could fit it into the trailer i felt a bit sad then
after everyone left i stayed with my step-mother and listened to some of my father’s music he was damn good but gone now
i walked into each room, a house i lived in as a small child, and walked around the yard. so much had changed but everything was the same
eventually i loaded my truck and drove home on streets filled with traffic, but i only saw blank and empty faces, gawking and waving unhappily at slow drivers
I cleaned and oiled one of your old rifles yesterday I wasn’t sure if it would explode I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger Passion filled my lungs and my heart You did that for me Dad And your rifle is just fine