I was ravenous for my child and took to gorging myself in the boneyard, hoping that she might possibly meet me halfway, or just beyond, one night, if only for an instant—step back into her own bare feet, onto the wet grass or fallen leaves or snowy ground of the living Enon, so that we could share just one last human word.
If someone wants to make a joke about me smoking too much pot, I'm not going to get mad at them, because I've put it out there that that's what I do.