They had strange names, and lived in a city built beneath the surface of the earth, and they were left there for centuries. Like all stories, they rode the river out, to the light, a boy, a girl, and a baby.
When I escorted Nikki to her car, I hugged her goodbye and said that I looked forward to her next visit. She held onto to me tightly and whispered into my ear, “You know the Indians killed him, don’t you?”
At sixteen, I can see that they are so eager to help and so ready and that the woman across the desk is nodding along, humoring them, being kind, indulging this feeling. My parents—good people, thinking people—do not understand; I do not understand. None of us will ever understand.
He’s meant to move. They can see it in his eyes and the way he wanders while he lectures. His feet shuffle like a James Brown bass line and he paces with the intensity of, well, not a tiger, but something. Something close to it.