Waving Not Drowning

Four more stops, a quick 2 block jaunt. Two hours to spare. Traveling light. Passport in hand.  Hopefully she'll be on time. Every year she swears she'll go. The best intentions. Plans her vacation around it, organizes her calendar, even commits to other people. No fail, something comes up. The flu. An out of town conference. An overrun on scheduled conference calls. But she knows the truth. If it's really important she can find a way, make the time, prioritize. It's once a year, for crying out loud. The same time, same day, same hour every single year. Her father would be disappointed, she knows this. She made a promise and broke it. It's almost like a phobia now. She sees the poppies pinned to every lapel, the veterans standing sentinel on corners, in subway stations, with their little boxes of fake plastic stickpin totems and she freezes up. She feels like a truant, skipping her duty, the daughter of a celebrated vet, granddaughter of a decorated soldier. It star...

He doesn't want to leave the house. As soon as the sun goes down John wants to dive under the covers and sleep for days. It's in his DNA, he tells himself. Winter's coming, must hibernate. He peels himself off the couch, steps over the cat spread eagled on the throw rug, dodges the stack of magazines he meant to read last week, month, year and finds himself assuming the position: bent over at the waist, peering into the bowels of the fridge, searching for some semblance of edibles among the rows of condiments, rotting thai leftovers and jars of raw nuts. How can people live in Alaska, not seeing the sun for 9 months of the year? John's trying to make an effort. He signed up for a two week introductory trial at the hot yoga studio thinking he might meet some women and get his energy flowing. Or inverted, or something. He's managed to make it to two classes with one more day to go before it expires. It's 8 pm. There's still time to catch a movie, an open mic n...