There Comes A Point When Things Are

Its Been A Long Night" "aren't They All?

Closed My Eyes And Listened. It Was Like Music I'd Heard All My Life, Even More Than "this Lullaby." All Those Keystrokes, All Those Letters, So Many Words. I Brushed My Fingers Over The Beads And Watched As Her Image Rippled, Like It Was On Water, Breaking Apart Gently And Shimmering Before Becoming Whole Again.

Because This Is What Happens When You Try To Run From The Past. It Just Doesn’t Catch Up, It Overtakes … Blotting Out The Future.

Now, Now," My Father Said. "let's Just Get The Bags." This Was Typical. My Father, The Lone Male In Our Estrogen-heavy Household, Had Always Dealt With Any Kind Of Emotional Situation Or Conflict By Doing Something Concrete And Specific. Discussion Of Cramps And Heavy Flow At The Breakfast Table? He Was Up And Out The Door To Change Oil On One Of Our Cars. Coming Home In Tears For Reasons You Just Didn't Want To Discuss? He'd Go Make You A Grilled Cheese, Which He'd Probably End Up Eating. Family Crisis Brewing In A Public Place? Bags. Get The Bags.

From This Distance, In The Dimness, The Model Looked Surreal, Made Up Of Parts Filled With Buildings, Bordered By Long Stretches Of Empty Space. It Reminded Me Of The Way Cities And Towns Look When You Are Flying At Night. You Can't Make Out Much. But The Places Where People Have Come Together, And Stayed, Are Collections Of Tiny Lights, Breaking Up The Darkness.