pajamatorture

Hold So much sky to hold So many souls to shelter Honor to be Tree

 When you’re eight years old and it’s raining outside and your cheek is pressed against the door, longing smells like a dusty window screen. The slant of the porch under a fat sky is the architecture of disappointment.  

My grandmother once told me this story: She was driving home from work in the big family car. The backseat was loaded with Christmas presents for my mom and all her brothers and sisters. The car got stuck at a rail crossing, just wouldn’t budge. My grandmother looked to her left and saw a train sliding down at her from the horizon. She calmly gathered the gifts from the back of the car and placed them in the snow away from the crossing. It took three trips to get them all. Then she stood there next to all the toys, clothes, books, and candy she had collected in the snow, and watched a 98-car train bowl the family car over, over, over,