November 18, 2019 | Fiction
Across the vacant middle seat an old man is sleeping through all of this, chin to collarbone, neck bent at a right angle.
I just remember the room dense with familiar sound, the melancholy howl of the perfectly in-tune saxophones, the electric brilliance of trumpets, a drummer with eight arms; my mother looking over at me, expectantly, as if to say, “This is what you wanted, right? This is making you happy?”
...a person is like an ocean, or a country, or a forest...
Do you remember this one?