maine 2:2
Jack and Jill behaved much more stoically than I felt. If I'd been them, children not my own, I would have thrown fits that would have busted my Visa card - motel, I could hear myself screaming, I want a motel. Such scenes had, in fact, taken place in my youth. My brother and I, fighting and crying, drove my mother to migraines on too frequent camping trips, driving from nothing to nothing more. I remember those trips with some affection now, but then I believed I was being fed to the insects out of pure spite. But Jack and Jill, my charges, just talked to each other, brushing the flies off each other, and daubing at their running skin with wet towels. I almost cried then, watching them be civil in hell. Thank you, I said. Jill smiled at me, really a beautiful smile, I thought. It's not your fault, she said.
move on...
other roads...
Back Up...
other roads:
