Moonlight Mile

I love what, if broken, can’t be repaired. What, if lost, can’t be replaced.
I love my burdens.

What’s that saying about size of the dog?”
“It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s—”
“The size of the fight in the little dog.

The mother’s eyes met mine and I was about to tell her it gets better, a lot better, but then her small eyes narrowed and mine did, too, both of our mouths opening. The hair on top of my head grew damp.
We hadn’t seen each other in twelve years, but there she stood.
Amanda.
And her baby.

I knelt by her and she turned her head. “Sweetie, we talked about this. Throwing a tantrum in the house is what?”
“Our problem,” she said eventually.
“And what’s throwing a tantrum outside our house?”
She shook her head.
“Gabriella,” I said.
“Our embarrassment,” she said.

Amanda knows exactly who she is.”
“And who is that?”
“I don’t follow.”
“We’ve heard about Amanda’s cool from a lot of people, and you describe her as knowing exactly who she is. My question is—who is she?”
“She’s whoever she needs to be. She’s adaptability personified.”

“You miss it?”
“Sometimes. More often than not, though? Not so much. It’s like any dysfunctional relationship—sure there were good things about it or else how would you get into it in the first place? But for the most part, it was killing me.

So many of the kids I deal with, the problem’s not the kid. It’s that the kid drew an asshole in the parental lottery. Or two assholes.

Which is to say, I don’t understand modern art and I’m fairly certain it doesn’t understand me, so we leave it at that and try not to bother each other.

Goddamn embarrassing what a civilian you’ve become, man.

You think you’re wearing that nice suit, but all I see you wearing is class rage. It’s draped over you.