This is the part of the memory that feels like drowning. I had three hours until dinner. Three hours until my dad came home and asked, "What did you do today?"
Inside, the house was a cathedral of hums. The refrigerator. The fish tank filter. The low static hiss of the television on channel 3, waiting for the Nintendo to wake up. wednesday 1991
I am writing this from a laptop that connects me to four billion people. I am distracted. I am split into seventeen tabs. I am anxious about an email that hasn't arrived yet and a notification that might ding at any moment. This is the part of the memory that feels like drowning