Tuesday, May 05, 2015


My seven-year-old son is in his red sleeping bag. I am lying next to him on an airport floor. Sun is streaming in through the giant window that gives onto the runways. The sun here never sets. We are playing a game, calling each other scatological names, and my son is laughing his laugh. "OK, time to go to sleep." My little boy instantly snuggles down, closing his eyes, but then I see his pronated hand. I put my hand flat upon it. "I am here, son." He sleeps. It is simple, nothing is simile, nothing is like anything else, or as such as such, and the sun streams in through the window.