My younger daughter was ten or eleven at the time, and wanted everything to be magical, or at least out of the ordinary.

Or perhaps he was monster becoming more human.

The one with people feet, I thought, had once been human, but had changed. He grew wild.

Tim O’Brien’s “How to Tell a True War Story”

though I am ashamed to say it, this seems unbearable to me—that

There is no father in the story, and after mine left I read the book again, trying to understand why. After the divorce we moved to a different house, one that seemed empty and lonely and full of despair, Where the Wild Things Are packed away with the other books we had outgrown and only occasionally got out to read, nights when the moon came over

Last year, squirrels almost killed our cable guy. My internet wasn’t working, and I could not look at YouTube videos or research tuberculosis or see pictures of possums posted on Facebook or any of the other things I do to keep from working, to keep from venturing out into the real world, where real problems exist and terrible things sometimes happ

Winter had just set in and the dark came early and no one knew he had only a few months to live,

As my father and I drive, there are fires everywhere. People burning trash or leaves in their yards, leaning on rakes, nodding as we pass by.