And so my nine-year-old discovered the word the other day. On the subway: a young woman, thoroughly exasperated by her fellow rude subway riders . . .
“Honey, I’m home.” Home to sulky silence, the absence of pounding footsteps, and the discordant music of two contentious nine-year-olds. I move through the eerie, foreboding silence toward her. Her—the mother of our children, and my wife of choice on most days . . .
First of all, lemme say that Big Ted’s my man. He always gives me a tight cut, and he’s cool, you know, funny. Got that educated-like slang. (Apparently he did a lot of reading in the joint . . .)
I have no toys.
I was hoping that at this stage of my life, as both husband and father, I would have some pretty cool toys. But I don’t. Instead I have four daughters, and this is why I have no toys . . .
Featured: Black Interest
- A Simple Distance
- I Love You Too
- Coming Up Hot: Eight New Poets from the Caribbean
- On the Way Back
- To Funk and Die in LA
- The Book of Harlan
- The Baker’s Son: My Life in Business
- Bandits & Bibles: Convict Literature in Nineteenth-Century America
- The Half That’s Never Been Told: The Real-Life Reggae Adventures of Doctor Dread