Skip to content


July 30, 2013

“We’re the only ones who do this,” John said.
“What?” I asked, then looked at him standing, swaying there on the other side of the room.


“Mommy plane?” my daughter asked from her car seat, a week after I’d come home. “Mommy choo-choo? Mommy bus?” she asks. She’s making a song of it almost, not knowing where I’d been, just understanding the things that were taking me away from her.


“This,” John said, looking down at his arms folded across his chest, his feet planted wide apart and his hips moving him back and forth like a metronome.

I was doing it, too I noticed, my whole body missing Nacine’s in a tempo of my own.

No comments yet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: