One can give nothing whatever without giving oneself--that is to say, risking oneself. If one cannot risk oneself, then one is simply incapable of giving.
-- James Baldwin (1924-1987), Writer
I know she doesn't love him. I know she doesn't love his guts.
My brother calls me to ask questions about her. He wants me to interpret her missing-in-action behavior. I say she doesn't risk anything. She always says she's busy, that she lost her cell phone and that she didn't have e-mail connection. She's become quite skilled at describing her hasty days.
She'll tend to the audits but not to his soul.
I would've bought a phone card and gone to a pay phone. I would've gone to an Internet cafe. I would've lost sleep. I would've done these things instead of leaving him in question. She always leaves him wondering.
When there is doubt over one's love for you, your guts turn. Your guts mourn loudly. The heaviness cannot leave your eyes.
She doesn't love him. She doesn't love his guts.
I removed that entry from my cell phone phone book list. And the other ones, too, like "JanWork" and "JanGrandma."
In 2001, our friendship fell apart. 2002 went by, and we exchanged but a few e-mails. This year, no trace. No sighting in a mall. No phone calls or e-mails.
I can never go back again. Never.
Sorry. Goodbye.
The speech was dense with words of passion. "Liberty," "freedom" and "security." He seemed fatherly, assuring the Iraqi people of the goodness that would come their way. Felt like a brand new day was coming.
Speechwriters caress your ears. Reality rips your soul.
I see a burnt oil can, and I wipe the black off my shoulders.
This war begins a campaign the press speaks very little about.