Monday, January 26, 2009

I left Seattle late, tired from alcohol and conversation, and slept through most of my first flight, waking only when the pilot announced our descent. The houses on the ground were dark, penned in by streetlamps, except for one spot that doubled the light of everything around it. It was only when we swung down closer that I realized the bright house was one on fire.

My grandmother's voice has gone soft and thin, and we all had to gather close to hear her, except for the moment when a nurse that she wanted me to meet walked past the door. Suddenly, my grandma found a voice that echoed down the hallway.

Late at night in a smoky bar a man feeds money into the jukebox and then turns to our table, gesturing with one hand at the six song credits on the screen. Watched over by a bar dog named Nikki Sixx, I picked our favorite songs from the nights we spent at the pool hall in high school.

And then home, watching the sun sneak through the clouds and gild swathes of the Gulf as far as I could see, huge sparkling sheets of water.

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