Bling Bling in the ATL

Amazon leaves brown boxes at the boy's door, part of the mysterious Dissertation process. This morning there was one. I found it first; I hid it behind my back and made the boy wrestle it away.


Last week a big box came, with something for me too. But I picked up one of the boy's history-of-trauma tomes, Soldiers and Psychiatrists instead. I found my gift bookmarked on on the boy's bedstand.

Midway through the week, the boy is txting me at 7 AM as he is finishing the book. He is telling me I'm classically beautiful. He is falling asleep without a care. And me? I'm mad at Bad People, seething quietly into my pillow, waiting til his breathing slows to cast off the covers and putter.


We've been reading the wrong books.


I wonder what was in that box that arrived today.