I’m fairly certain everyone’s high. On something. But me. I’m standing in the middle of a football field, after rumors of a lone gunman send crowds streaming towards the exits.
Clues drop like shots in the dark. My heart races. I go blind for a few seconds, gather my thoughts. I would rather die here, as an open target, than go down with the ship of fools stampeding over their friends and family.
To live one more day.
There is bread to bake, and mouths to feed. I am neither young nor beautiful enough to stand onstage and take it, so I wrestle with my demons in private, as I wrestle my dough, pretending I am both to while away the time.
Every time I see her, I picture a cute little girl my son watched, too, learning to fight through his early autism to run towards humanity, with open arms, because the purple dinosaur said so in a song.
They’re all grown now.
Look how high they fly. Kites skittering toward heaven.