Carol brought the baby home and put him in the bassinet, then sat on the edge of the bed staring at him. He slept peacefully while she toyed with a loose thread on the floral quilt. She was young, but not foolish, and she, along with her husband, Dan, both wanted this baby. But what struck her that day, what she hadn’t really thought about until that very moment, was the permanence of this baby.
We were half way through the second course before she mentioned it. Quite in passing. Not that she came out and said it directly. Just in passing as if it was something I already knew. Something like oh my husband would have done such and such or my husband would have said such and such. That seems reasonable, I told her, I would understand that. As if I knew him. As if she thought I knew about
Like a Tranquil Island
Of course I ran out of time, just barely
begun before I had to board, right as
I discovered at last the best part of
the city, the place where the artists were
thriving, painting their window frames purple,
using five colors to coat one house, the
way I always imagined we would be
living before a bus became a
metaphor for what
It’s my nineteenth birthday and I’m swimming with ten friends in a quarry when this old man with a big beard comes charging across the lawn. He’s one of those tall guys who makes himself seem taller by walking stooped, like he’ll become gigantic if he rears his head up. Plus, when your eyes sit inches above the waterline, everybody on land seems tall.
“Who let you in?” he says. “Who