I cannot stay still, cannot complete a thought. Standing at my desk while I type, I leave the room to gently vacuum the red velvet of an antique chair. It is one of six that Buck brought to our marriage all those years ago along with a mahogany trestle table. I turn music on. I turn it off. I pack old “mind candy” action adventure paperback books into bags to take to the Easter Seal store. I return to my desk, stand, type some more.
My monkey mind cannot leave thoughts of my younger brother. It is a scab that itches, though not from healing. I hear my own heart beating, and I fear the jangle of that phone call, the one which seems in transit over the wires, a bullet in slow motion, like some John Woo rough cut.