Being the boss on a summer day inside some police
barn, surrounded by children ages 9 through 10, I have to
keep my voice to a forceful stage whisper as to not startle
the horses. ‘No, no, wait for her to tell you it’s okay
to touch Titan.’ The policewoman’s name has escaped me,
but she doesn’t know mine. Wasps buzz about the cobwebbed
ceiling one child points out.
Next week a kid named Jesus is in my camp but all the other
kids call him Zeus. And they call Anya Ana. I’ve noticed things
this year I never have before: the difference between a dragonfly
and a damselfly; how our Australian Shepard mix sounds when she dreams;
the panic that accompanies a trailer hitched to a 15 passenger van; what
cheating feels like at the trivial level. Ending stuff is hard, and your advice
would be so welcome right here.