Remembering the moose who came to visit out Modern Government class with J. teaching. It was Spring. It as a perfect day, dry and bright, everything emerald. It was maybe the third time I'd seen a moose on the property of the school. The way is was exciting was so much like the way I was excited to leave high school and go to college. The last moose is the one I remember, though there were others. It seemed to come up so close to our classroom, as though it wanted us to stick our arms and hands out the window to greet it or to even pet its face.
What kind of story couldI ever write about my father? One juxtaposing our relationship today with the one we had when I was a kid, when I would ski in between his skis? Seeing his face as I fell off the chairlift, or when I skied into the woods?
Something something about the boy, Mr. Z. I do not know if I can write about him, but if not now, when?
I have been trying to read like a writer and have been zeroing in on some short stories. For example, I just reread a Marissa Silver short story from her collection Babe in Paradise. But the story made me sad in away that felt shitty, like lonely sad, as the character, an older man was lonely. I could not really pay attention to the craft of the story because of this; it was distracting, how I felt.