listen

a good trapped

It feels so unlikely that I don't even know what it is until five minutes after it's happening to me. He says that I wasn't wearing my seat belt but I was and I am in the middle of explaining how I have for the past twenty years moved it from my shoulder to under my arm when I realize from the look on his face that I just need to shut up and listen.

"I'm wearing it wrong."

"Yes ma'am."

"Thank you."

He drives away.
Now I'm working against muscle memory when I start my car, but I do feel like I need to listen.



It's a phone interview in the realm of otherwise we'd never meet. Different cities, different circles. He had dinner with a name dropped last week. For forty-two minutes I attempted to type a conversation he agreed to have with me. To challenge him, push him, gather his secrets so I can bring them back to a group of kids who will hopefully read about him.

I hope I listened. It's the most important part of writing it.




We sit by a pool and I ignore the heat, the horseflies, and whatever else may have been happening around me because she is sitting by me, and it has not been more important for me to listen all week.




Today I am grateful to know when to listen.

Off to write. Later to swim.