“Will we ever run out of rock?” I asked my friend. It was a completely blonde question. But it came when very few brain cells were willing to cooperate. My dad was in the hospital, critically ill. I walked our stretch of beach with an understanding friend. “No,” my smart friend said. “The pressure of the earth continually forms new rock deep below the surface.” “Oh, right.” I responded, trying to shake off the valley girl persona.
It’s been over a year since I lost my dad. And there is a huge hollowed out
I can hear it in stereo. One side of the sky is cracking, snapping under the pressure of changing temperatures. And now it comes from the other side, fighting for territory, growling and groaning and barking. I run to shut Max’s window, but I can’t get close enough. The yard outside becomes brilliant white, lit up as if the paparazzi have finally found us. Raindrops turn hard against windowsills. And I dart toward Max.