Wednesday, October 21, 2015
My younger son could, in this inescapable world, spell every word perfectly. E-v-e-r-y word. The assertion was all around me, inescapable as a bayou sweat. It was incredibly, incredibly sad and I could not escape. The loneliness was everywhere and sad-sad-sad. No amount of struggling could throw it off. Gawd!
In reality, I do not know that my son is an especially good speller, so there was a dream-like fancy to the whole thing. No doubt there was some sense in which I was the son in this diaphanous bloodbath, though my capacity to spell is medium at best. It was the horror that clung and insisted and let me know there was no recourse but to wake up and serious up.
It was a grisly greeting on a grey day.