Aug 22, 2017 · 1 min read
Out of the Woods
I whistle, nonchalant, yet I am dancing on the edge of panic. She stamps her tiny foot (the child i used to be) and asks me why. Why this, why now, why me?
I do not know, i tell her truthfully. I will not offer up a lie to make her feel better. It happened because you’re bad or dumb or lacking in responsibility. It happened. It’s not your fault. It makes no sense. “How can you whistle at a time like this?” she snarls. Determined to make sense, she cannot tolerate uncertainty.
Follow the whistling girl. She will lead you bravely past the graveyards. Out of the woods. Home.
LBM 7/12/98 (i sliced my finger open with the electric grass clippers and had to play a Metrowest Symphony concert with stitches).

