Warriors

I broke the bread. Crumbs on the counter. The crusty edge stabbed the roof there is no blood. Mom hates when I complain because the world has bigger problems. Order is not in our lives. Sorrow in mom’s heart. Tubes affixed to Caroline. Jason slept on a Central Park bench on September the 11th. We called his cell but the trains weren’t running. Can’t run fast enough to complete this in time. To befriend time is a disease. Mom and I watch from the doorway as Caroline clings to Jason the way mothers and fathers and daughters and sons clung to those who could have been there but weren’t. Have you met the man who never missed a day in twelve years he broke the streak that day he put his son on the kindergarten bus. Not all souls go unforgiven. I don’t believe in luck but look at the light at the end if you want to land among the believers. Have you learned to trust? I don’t know what they call it— leukemia or lymphotic something or other all I know is not enough but not even Oxford educated men know everything. Attach weight to web designers and psychoanalysts. We’ll need to visit a psychiatrist. All that shattered is whole but how do you learn to cope after you’ve won the battle but lost one-eighth of your childhood and does this make you believe in everybody loves the high point and how low is your lowest. What color are the rays of light that radiate from strands of her real hair and how to go about writing the ending when all is still unclear…

______________

à bientôt

Cara

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