Your mother called with urgency in her veins and theater in the air and a request for the number at the Buddhist retreat, with a plea on the end, in exhalation. Seems Robbie died. The funeral to be next Tuesday in So. Cal under a pile of details and tears. Taoist transactions for the coming year.
Life is hand-made paper .
This drama of separation, spectacular in its long pauses, rolling shirtsleeves, mammoth steam-irons held at the ready just in case unexpected wrinkles appear beyond the script. One could hear the engines of family codes warming on the tarmac, turbine whines, trembling tires and posters of places I'd seen before and disliked intensely. But do give it a thought, there's nothing she can do from Wyoming. Tuesday's a long way off. Sunday's a good day for incoming silence, where urgent messages begin to break into dots and dashes that I'd accept gladly.