Event Horizon

If ever she convinces you to loan her a charging cord or a pair of earbuds, be prepared to say goodbye to them.
      When you reach forward to give them to her, at that moment your earbuds are right near to the event horizon—you may still have time to save them if you act quickly—but once you’ve handed them over and she’s placed them in her purse, that’s it, they’ve passed the point of no return.
      Not even a charging cord or your car keys or the kids’ insurance cards or an undeposited monthly paycheck can escape, once it’s passed the event horizon.

 

 

Unfit

I, their father, am patient.
      She, their mother, is not so patient.
      I am fit. She is unfit.

I, their father, am selfish.
      She, their mother, is not so selfish.
      I am unfit. She is fit.

I, their father, am a man.
      She, their mother, is a woman.
      I am unfit. She is fit.

I, his father, love baseball.
      She, his mother, hates baseball.
      I am fit. She is unfit.

I, her father, hate Disneyland.
      She, her mother, loves Disneyland.
      I am unfit. She is fit.

I, their father, am human.
      She, their mother, is also human.
      I am fit. She is also fit.

I, their father, am a writer.
      She, their mother, is also a writer.
      I am unfit. She is also unfit.

 

 

Dreadful

No longer do we set foot in the buildings in which they work, for we dread seeing them there.
      No longer do we go to our favorite restaurant, which is also their favorite restaurant, for we dread seeing them there, seated at a table with their friends, as we once sat, the four of us, eating dinner together.
      No longer do we take our kids to that park, the one our kids love, for we dread seeing them there with their kids, who also love that park.
      (We especially dread the thought of our kids, who are not dreadful, playing with their kids, who, despite having such dreadful parents, are also not dreadful.)
      No longer do we drive down the street on which they live, for we dread seeing them on their lawn, tending to their dreadful flower beds. Or on their porch, rocking in their dreadful rocking chairs. Or through the windows of their house, laughing and carrying on, so dreadfully.
      They are dreadful. They fill us with dread. We know that we fill them with dread, too. Did they start dreading us before or after we started dreading them? Who made who dreadful?
      We’ve grown so accustomed to living like this, to living in dread, and to living so dreadfully, it’s as if we dread the idea of things getting any less dreadful. We’ve become so dreadful that now we dread even dreadlessness.

 

 

 

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ARTWORK BY JOAN MITCHELL