Wednesday, November 11, 2020


In an election year, the original meaning of the word is forgotten; the metaphorical meaning has buried it.

This feels like the realization of my recurring childhood dream, the one in which we are racing through the Sumner Tunnel under Boston Harbor, with the tunnel collapsing behind us, and filthy seawater cresting and crashing just a few car lengths behind, matching the Buick's pace perfectly.   We will only survive if my father continues to grip the wheel, hell-bent and bug-eyed.

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