![]() ![]() Perhaps, not by coincidence-once you began to trip around fifty’s maypole-you and your sister find together the courage to do the math: of all the boys whom you had known as children, at least eighty-percent were all either missing, in jail, or dead. And History was just a very small one-a ledger, and always in the black. English was too many red languages at once. At some point, you gave up expecting to be understood. Slowly, over the years, you train yourself not to want this- you-a body in your bed with whom you can have a real conversation-a body with whom you can walk anywhere, talk anywhere, hear anywhere. And it is the beginning-it is the very first day-when the World confirms that new gleam of suspicion layered on the surface of the dark violet lake inside, that, Yes, slaughter is normal. And says it: your first beloved-that boy for whom you were slowly unfolding yourself from inside outward-that boy, whom you had yet to kiss, but would one day soon kiss certainly-that monumental boy, who smiled at you differently-that boy-had just been shot and killed. When a dear friend, your sister’s best-best friend-drives by-stops her car in the middle of the street. Or more honestly (it takes even more years), you begin to realize that-perhaps-they are not all supposed to be dead. And then (at some point) as you step more vigilantly into the middle of your life, you begin to realize that they are all dead. ![]()
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