I always assumed we would one day find each other again, my father and I.
But a room with a bed at its center would attach certain words to what we had, words we weren’t ready to claim.
On hurricane days my family drove to the beach, parked, and stared at the insanely huge waves, perfectly safe from wind and water in our car, but struck dumb.
Wander around Washington, DC long enough in a bow tie and a flag pin, you can land any number of free five-course meals replete with stemware and a salad fork. This luncheon was something special though.
Causes, in many ways, similar to those that felled the young men I knew: jungle rot, youthful folly, despair, and gunfire.
“White expats like to say there are three types of us in Africa: missionaries, mercenaries, and misfits. I was, obviously, the misfit.”
This is a scared man’s bet.
The insults piled on top of each other like a chain of cars crashing at high speed.
Maybe I still hadn’t gotten my period or anything, but surely this was proof: things were real and we were getting older.
Many birders keep track of the birds we’ve seen on a “Life List,” with species, date and location.