Quieted

We saw an old man in an old church talk about writing last night. He was famous, accomplished, but when it came down to it, he was really just a man. A chapel full of readers and writers and I think, at times, none of us had anything to say. It wasn't the actual man we were captured by, in his button-down shirt and worn baseball cap, it was his words and the memories they evoked.

A conversation in the last pew; A conversation during a funeral

."I'm the only one left now. Soon no one will remember us."

-"You've got Sue."

."No one should have to bury their little sister. Or their little brother. I'm the only one left."

-"They lived good lives."

."Did they? How can you tell?"

-"They had people who loved them."

."I don't know if that matters."

-"It matters. Besides, you've still got Sue."

."We buried her a long time ago. I'm the only one left."

A whole world

There's a whole world out there, he told me. There's a whole world and we're gonna see it, he told me.

One day

The windows are all open so it feels like spring. There's blue paint on the side of the court, little boys with signatures that will outlast their youth.

There's a woman dressed in layers, tending to her garden of broken objects. Spoons and tin cans hang from a tree and she's maybe what you would call "an artist", or maybe what neighbors would call "eclectic".

The India House has been closed for years, but the sign and menu are still up. The sun shines on the windows like the lights are still on, and I'm sure when people walk by, they smell the spices.

There are buildings, four stories high, where the refugees live with prayer flags hanging from porches. In dorm rooms and hippie chicks' bedrooms, the flags are just a passing notion. Here, they represent a past, a life, a memory, a future, a need.