Again I bring you a fragment found, this time, in the back of a book. I remembered it because of a tweet, actually. I remember now everything about writing it– low belly orange sun, whitewashed campus lawn furniture printing the back of my thighs. A few hours later, I would be sitting almost right in a fire, wine glass tilted in unsure hand, spectacular friendships kindling prophetic. That memory alone is a forgotten snapshot worth mentioning.
I wouldn’t say we are a “broken family.”
“Cracked” is more like it–like we are that section [of wall] above a door in a house with a poor, dry, Texas foundation, fissure stretching from frame to ceiling, widening on days when the air is thick enough to cut, but so small and delicate on others that you can barely see it at all.
It’s just another piece of wall.
I think I got the humidity thing reversed. Wouldn’t the crack get bigger the drier it was? Science, guys.