Saturday, March 5, 2011

March 5th 2011


"I'm shorapling".


We are on the telephone, each one of us holding one close to an ear. The wind is rushing, I can hear you breathing, I think you must be outside. I imagine you standing there, in the snow, without mittens, a cell pushed tight to your head.

"I'm shrapling," you say again, and I know you are getting frustrated, I know you are losing patience. We have been shouting down the phone like this for days now.

"I still can't hear you," my voice is straining, I can hear the wind, it is rushing on my end, too, and I want to understand you, I want to know what's going on. "Please tell me what you mean."

Please. Please. Please.

No comments:

Post a Comment