Wednesday, May 22, 2013


The smell of late spring morning was rising up from the ground as we were walking off the whiskey night and birds were practicing their summer songs.  I told him he was afraid but I wouldn’t tell him more, even when he asked.  I couldn’t tell him that I thought he was afraid of me, afraid of breaking all over again, and even more afraid of not breaking because he didn’t know how to not be broken.  And I didn’t tell him because I was afraid. But in my head I stopped mid-step on that tree lined street, turned to him and said, “We’re drunk and broken, medicated and insecure, but - damn it - a chance in hell is better than no chance at all.”