I don’t need to tell you that you’ve already passed the anniversary of your own death in some future hold-out in the mountains. But so what.
I wrote home every week, every week I ended the letter with “Get me the fuck out of here!”
Whatever fun Kid Detective Camp had promised to be, it had not delivered. The brochure had described six weeks of sleuthing adventures, running around in the woods with magnifying glasses, solving the mystery of the “missing” counselor, Dirk. The problem was, Dirk really did go missing. So did Alonzo and Samantha, neither of which were in the plan.
On the road, my husband didn’t know / this, my last night out. / Our bungalow always open / told no secrets.
It is difficult to realize how rote and programmatic your love-life may once have been.
imagine if someday the problem is that we were all living for too long / hold on, let me take off my bracelets / I explore different cities and I think I hear the youngest child making noises with her mouth
Feelings of high human longing will invade your senses just before an elite team of Navy SEALs storm your mountain compound and eliminate you with, like, extreme prejudice?