Snow covers the grit of the city, secreting its spent syringes, derelict cardboard shelters, and desiccated chicken bones. Here, farther west, wood and lawn glisten, pure. The metro is warm, too warm, and crowded with people shuttling between Owings Mills and Hopkins. At midnight, when the lines shut down, where will they sleep?
I have a story to write, a story about a man, an immigrant who drives a bus, so filled with anger or hurt or something so strong that it flings out of him, down his arm to his hand, balled up, and lands on the left cheek of a small girl, his passenger. It is all I think about, this man and his story. But I cannot write it – it is to close; the child is my daughter.
I called my mother and she was out. The answering machine picks up, my father’s voice tells me Bill and Carol are not available, please leave a message, and I hang up, but the sound of his voice follows me all day, all night, unforgettable.
I am 47. Why has it taken me so long to recognize what is important?
February has the fewest days of any month, yet lasts the longest...