| In the late spring of 1985, we met in the weedy lot of the Orchid Pavilion Nursery for a little ritual purification. Everyone came, all the half-brothers and half-sisters, the children not yet born, and men so old they were young again. We sat beside the aqueduct, and gold cans of beer floated down to us like the lines of poems. The end of the twentieth century hung over us like a cartoon anvil, but the breeze that day was a knife so sharp you couldn’t feel it cutting pieces off of you. But then, when it’s sunny, no one remembers how quickly a century turns over. Our mothers always said that living and dying ran on the same business model, that one hand washed the other. But how to tell that to the rat whose whiskers will be bound into the brush that inks these very lines about him? No, there’s no use pretending the tears our mothers wept over newborn babies and the dead were even the same species of water. Copyright © 2015 by Nick Lantz. Used with permission of the author. |
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