Sunday, December 15, 2019

At least I can write with insomnia


She swallowed hard, spikes studding her throat. There are moments you can so clearly choose your direction. She’d done it when Lennon was born, the second day of his life, when they took him away from her in preparation to be circumcised. She was following the nurse who was wheeling him toward the elevator when she heard the door click closed and realized that for the first time, she was separated from her son. She turned to the security guard and pumped her fist. Dude, she said, I haven’t been alone for nine months!

This moment was everything and nothing like that one. There was no joy here at the Berkeley Bowl Café, no opportunity for silly humor to take the edge off something that could be so damn serious. Just the exposed bone and marrow of a secret finally revealed.

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