Storybook

A small child wrapped her hand in mine, contorted her body around our tangle not to lose it as she settled in for sleep. Ten thousand lost tourists meandered down Broadway and into tiny souvenir shops along Canal, oblivious to the pace of a speeding city, oblivious to my need to conduct errands in their vicinity without being infected with their unbelonging. I sat at a typewriter punching out a letter that didn’t know what it wanted to say when it started, but which snowballed out of my control into deep twisting rose-covered vines that spoke of love and loss and how cruel distance when lives fall apart; the open parenthesis key is jammed and every interjection I added had to be carefully considered.

He says we must pick one moment out of every day to be that day’s story. But how to pick one? Life is more often than not mundane. But how to pick just one?

Life is constantly extraordinary.