There’s a difference between being complacent and accepting an outcome, versus accepting an outcome but then seeing what you can do better next time around. Read more →
My friend Jon and I were in one of our moods of being destructive little men wreaking havoc on the small town of Ontonagon.
There was a strange but familiar smell, it was a mixture of musky perfume, sage, and beef soup. I knew for sure who it was in my kitchen, and it wasn’t a burglar, it was my Grandma.
And one day she was sure she’d come to love her baby too. It was a bit of cosmic mercy in the midst of hell.
As the evening star appeared, the despair that she’d kept locked in a fist grip behind her moved in close, as if the tiny light had beckoned it forward.
After a time his anger and embarrassment turned to a melancholic blanket of regret. He now wanted to find relief from his actions more than an explanation for them.
He was just an escapee from the border town of El Chuco, working a shit job in a shit hole, passing through on his way to tomorrow.
Beeeeeeeeeep! “Hey! Watch where you’re going!” I was awake, but between the tears clouding my vision and the sorrow drenching my heart, I didn’t notice I’d drifted into the next lane. It was one day until my son’s birthday and one week before school—not a great time to move, but I had no choice. I never fathomed it would come…
Thump! Thump! Thump! I tossed around like a fish out of water trying to fall back asleep. Thump! Thump! Thump! Ugh, what in the heck is that? I pedaled my feet back and forth trying to find the edge of the blanket so I could cover my cold feet. Finally, I was wrapped up like a cocoon and ready to…
Chaske’s (first born son) ina (mother) knew he was different from the time he could open her tubes of lipstick and eat the vermillion colored wax. She considered him a natural as he would drape her blue fringed shawl over his little arms and flutter like a butterfly across the kitchen floor. Once, she couldn’t find Chaske at dinner time….
On the way into town, spring tumbles across your face through the open windows of the turquoise Ford pickup. Mom sits beside Dad conquering the two lane, beer gut tucked under the wheel gripped precisely at 10 and 2 o’clock. Behind you, the window frames a gun rack sporting a .30-30 lever action rifle and a 12 gauge shotgun. Fences…