Papa

The writer waxes on about solitude in the Hemingway outback, seeking kinship and finding only the remains of a determined suicide, what is there left to say? We like to paint death in romantic colors to distract ourselves from the finality of these little lives we lead. At the end of the day, you either did or you didn't. Which is it?

I woke in a haze, a boulder on my chest and unanswered messages in my phone. Tell me where you are and I'll drive you home, but don't they know the subway system is the only thing that grounds me, when the fireworks have broken my bones into pieces and my body threatens to float away? The Brooklyn night grew long and windy, the crooked roof with just the slightest reprieve of a wind: it's too easy to be soft in the presence of magic, it's almost like I hadn't forgotten what my muscles feel like around it, I nearly tripped for a second but don't worry. All's well that ends well, isn't it?

The A train rocked steadily westward through the tunnels, a collection of quiet, tired stars and stripes, and I was grateful for the community in solitude. Here is where my skin ends, here is where my feet stand. They are not the answers I was hoping for. But sometimes any answer is better than none at all.