Time does us violence; it is the only violence. Near Disney World, her father screamed they were going to die if they didn't get the exit right. It's not time that confuses us, but place. Baghdad descends on Orlando like a section of gray matter. There's no telling the squares apart, the one where you visit Mickey Mouse or the other where your soldier gets blown up by an IED. Mickey lives in a safe house on the perimeter. Children rush to him as if he were the Pope in velvet slippers, gently touching the hems of his costume. But her father walks the Kingdom's streets knowing that each house hides a man with a gun. Memory is a protectorate he left long ago. When she says she wants to write about this, he asks why. To save our family, she says. It's a small world after all.
2 months ago