A van passed by my house every now and then, and from it flies a newspaper I never read. The beat up van is piloted by an older woman, and the thrower of the newspaper is, I have to believe, her son. He is balding, scrawny, and wearing BCGs (birth control glasses in military parlance). What do I witness when I see these two pass by? A failure to launch? Some kind of curious brokenness? An inability or refusal to fall in step? Perhaps it is only a mother who won't abandon her child come age, come failure, come what may.
"I am so lonely, but I know there is a plan. There must be. I can muscle through my life until the next move is clear. I miss you all so much. I am alone for most of the time. It's just me and the cats and dogs. Nobody comes up. Nobody stops by. It's not like it used to be -- so full of life. Perhaps I'll move down there with you. But not now. There is a plan, and I must follow it. I must follow it even though it's too quiet around here."
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