Coffee: Organic Sumatra Blend, Trader Joe’s Brand
I think about family. I belong to a lawyer and musician who met at a Chapel Hill bus stop. That’s the only ownership I’m certain of but I’m damn sure I’ve got more ties than that. Every so often I open my bedroom window, listen to whatever’s out there, and try acknowledging my blood.
The South is inside me. It sets me on one side of the train tracks, even though I grew up on the other. I’m white as day-lilies and grew up poor as my third-son ancestor who left England for Virginia when he knew he’d inherit nothing. I consume black art. The people I’d like to relate to, I have no right to. The people I’m welcome with frighten me.
There’s a handful of people I’ve struggled to get my genes inside. Metaphorically, sometimes, and a little more literal at others. We met in disparate places for no particular reason. Meaning has a funny way of finding you.
Work friendships and loves like a sleepless cobbler. Everybody needs a good few shoes to keep off the ground.
The Pardoner’s Tale, by John Wain
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“Looking at them both now, Jerome found himself in their finger joints and neat conch ears, in their long legs and wild curls. He heard himself in their partial lisps caused by puffy tongues vibrating against slightly noticeable buckteeth. He did not consider if or how or why he loved them. They were just love: they were the first evidence he ever had of love, and they would be the last confirmation of love when everything else fell away.” – Zadie Smith, On Beauty