The weekend is full of anger: anger at the people who decide what must be eaten and what must be said; anger at those who speak but do not listen; anger at those who follow the speaking with mild condescension, smirks, and outright laughter.
The weekend is full of memories: people come back from the dead time bridging the past and the present. We eat ribs and drink coffee and heckle the waiters. She looks at one with such intensity that I am surprised he doesn’t notice. Her stare takes him completely. He’s married. I become curious.
I remember a man’s daughter, three years my senior, who fell off a horse and got trampled. She’s here, in the city. From what he said, she hasn’t grown. I’ve grown. He hardly recognizes me.
The weekend is full of hope: I start to believe in fate, only to reconsider a few moments later. I rationalize it by thinking that I did not want to go. I wonder if it would make sense for someone to believe in fate for themselves, but not for others. I start to think that it doesn’t work that way.