Oliver and I like the same food, share an interest in history, have the same obsession with Europe, smile a lot, and make the same inane jokes. Although he doesn’t listen to all the same music as I do, he looks a whole lot like Robert Plant, which is close enough for me. Unfortunately, I got to see him so rarely that I discovered only halfway through a relationship that Oliver had actually dated this same girl. I probably should have figured this out sooner, but Oliver had at that point mostly fallen out of contact with the outside world. He stopped coming to school, and few people got to talk to him for a long while. But while I never got to be one of those few, a doomed mission to boost his spirits by paying his family a visit gave me a memorable window into his condition.
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Abilene looked back.
From the hill it was nothing but a deep, black smudge, like God dragged a thick piece of charcoal across the land. The city was still coughing up clouds of oily smoke and, if she looked closely, she could see points of red flame beckoning for her to return.
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It doesn’t happen like in the movies. There are no storm clouds, no lightening flashes, and no ominous music. There certainly weren’t any when it happened to me. I had walked home from school cheerily, with a childish innocence I foolishly took for granted. The door to the house seemed to welcome me. My sister, Margaret, was sitting at the kitchen table reading a book. She didn’t even look up as I passed her, grabbed a banana from the bowl, and headed up the stairs. The door to my room was ajar, and I nudged it open with my elbow. I stopped. Horror. It was Root Bear, loyal teddy, best friend. His legs were torn off. This had to be the handiwork of the family dog, Chewbarka. I lifted Root Bear tenderly and looked deep into his brown furry face. His mouth hung open. He must’ve been in shock. He would be though. He had lost a lot of stuffing.
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I first saw a grown man cry at my Grandpa’s funeral. It was late November, on a Saturday. Leaves were fading from orange to gray and the air thick with cold. There had not been snow yet, but the ground was frozen. I was nineteen, wedged against four sisters and six cousins on a hard, wooden pew. My Nana sang in the Lutheran choir so the funeral was down the road from our usual Baptist house of worship. The Lutheran church had huge, flat grey stones covering the outside like a medieval castle; all that was missing was a moat and drawbridge. In the interior hung heavy purple curtains beside banners that depicted Christ’s resurrection in crimson paint. Drafts of wind jabbed at us through the ceiling cracks and I remember shivering despite the heat from my sister Alexis’ shoulder.
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