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We got out of the car under a highway. My dad wanted to show me a path along the river across from the parking lot. It was a cold, gray day, and felt more like January than late March. The torn up concrete expanse separating us and the river used to be a brick factory, Dad said. A dense, swampy looking forest wound around the perimeter and looked like it had bled onto the cement in the years the area had been left more or less unattended. By the time we reached the trailhead, the weather had soured and we both agreed that it was too cold and too gray of a day for exploring. Probably best to cut our losses and head back to the car. The sky was pregnant with rain and the air was heavy.
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I dropped my glasses into some gravel at an unknown date last spring. They were mildly scratched. I know because two and a half pages in the journal I was using at the time to jot down notes and sketches and whatnot for my game have been repurposed to describe the process in exhausting detail. Minus the date, which is strange. Typically, I am very organized in labelling my note-taking, but it’s possible that being concerned with what day it was felt trivial or even inappropriate given the severity of the issue at hand.
My brother, Foss, turned 12 years old today. Already he’s a pretty standard 12 year old: he’s loud, energetic, well-meaning, and annoys me a lot. However, Foss also requires constant attention, special planning, and a lot of patience (which, now that I think of it, are qualities that could fall under the most 12 year olds umbrella) because of his cerebral palsy, spastic quadriplegia, and his, well, blindness, which was all caused by a seizure he had when he was 3 days old. That part’s not really typical of most 12 year olds. In addition to being blind and stuff Foss is also…
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