i have no idea why this lunatic errand matters to me, beyond the foolish belief that, one of these days, when i reach the lake’s edge, i will find him, i mean literally find him, still there, an eleven year old boy, cold and alone, with nowhere else to run.
late at night my grandfather would crush saltine crackers in a coffee mug and fill it with cold milk. that was his favorite snack, and the sweetest memory my father ever shared with me. whenever i imagine it i’m right there with him, looking over his shoulder in some half-lit, long-ago kitchen, watching a boy watch a man he loves spoon 