“It’s happening,” my aunt texted. “Come here now.”
I got in my car and drove—the roads eerily clear for 8am. No song would suffice for a drive like this, so I listened to a podcast.
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My neighbor only talks to me on punishingly hot days, days when the asphalt steams, the milk sweats, and a mere ten minutes walking the dog will wilt you like a green onion. On scorchers like these, the mailman wears Airpods to ward off chat.
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The common impression is that I live in an artful city—but I’ve never been particular about architecture.
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A bunch of mumbling, phone crackling, panicked voices, angry voices, threats, demands. It never stops.
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It was the late nineties, and I was the kind of toddler whose face decorated the photo studio at the mall. Loose brunette curls pinned back with ribbon, fingers curling around basket handles, clutching a bunny, its white fur raised.
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