Writing

My dad was a super hero. One weekend out of every month. 

The best kind of pain. Pain for what we once loved and now lost. The ability to know what it was once like is a privilege. It’s hard to quantify the feeling; the simple 1–10 chart is unreliable in this circumstance. 

I always wanted to live on a lake. Not on the shore but bobbing among the waves. I’d envision a floating device under my home and rowing to shore for groceries and parties. I’d float around town until I brought to where I needed to be.

If I was a bug I’d be a beetle. A Japanese beetle, invasive and not necessary. Nothing special to look at, just a beetle looking beetle. I’m sure you’ve seen hundreds of them without batting an eye.

The smell of sticky buns wake me up but I haven’t quite awoken yet. I can feel the crust from last night keeping my eyes shut.

Breath. You have to breathe to make it through the second. Through the minute. Through the hour. Through the day. Through the week. Through the month. Through the year. Through your lifetime.