I have a new essay up at The Nervous Breakdown: Dead, I Am.
My son collects sticks. He thinks they are for his grandfather’s fireplace. The fact that it is in the 100s and humid and the family would collectively strangle his grandfather if he tried to build a fire doesn’t dissuade the collection at all. One might think that, being in Brooklyn, stick collecting might be difficult. One would be wrong. We live near a park that apparently has sticks flown in from all over the Tri-state area. After recent wind and rain storms the sticks on the ground are outnumbered only by the number of sticks in my son’s arms as he screams that they are for grandpa for the fireplace and no he doesn’t care that it’s blisteringly hot, that strangers are grasping our ankles while gasping “water” in death-ridden rattles, that we won’t be seeing grandpa for at least a month.