Dirt-Colored Dirt

And after a day of travel-knots in my stomach, and the bumps and sways of the plane descending with the synchronized bobbling of all the heads ahead of us, we found ourselves, me and the boys, in New Mexico. I filled my daily journal pages with less analysis and more catalogues of description, thunderheads piling up and a hummingbird buzzing the table on my parent’s patio where I get up early and write, Rainer’s delight when we spot bats at dusk and it takes me a moment to realize what they are, “Those are not-birds!” which leads to a week of laughing identification of me as “not-Dad” and him as “not-Soren” cats as “not-dogs” ad infinitum — as the best almost-five year old jokes are apt to be. I...

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