No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
I met my great-uncle Julián for the first time at my great-aunt Teresa’s funeral. He was a dark, tiny man dressed all in white. White pants, white shirt. And a cowboy hat. He looked like the stereotypical Mexican peasant, even though I don’t think he had ever spent an hour in the country.
We, Pooch and I, for those few moments, lived in two different temporal worlds; I was not just astounded by his speed, I was deeply disoriented, so much so that at first I felt no pain. At first.
I go home to Pune, filled with wistful anticipation tinged with dread. As we hold hands and walk down the streets we once loved, the changes are all around us.
Today is Thanksgiving, though you wouldn’t guess it from the sterile walls and empty smells. Visiting hours here are from 1:00-2:00 PM every day. Toy Story 3 murmurs in the background as my family and I approach the main desk.
It’s not such a wonderful idea to try to prove one’s machismo by eating fugu, i.e. puffer fish, or by lining one’s pockets with the profits of such sales. Firing M-16s on a military base, likewise, can cause harm. More detrimental to one’s well-being, though, is blasting music in an apartment in which a Mama Writer is trying to compose a text.
Probably for the fifth time during the night I check my phone. I haven’t got up to check. I steal a look only because I’ve got up.