Note: I wrote this year ago, maybe in 2005 or so.
April sat on the front steps of her building. This is where smokers sit, she thought. But she didn’t smoke. She drank tea and wanted fresh air. She looked across the narrow street and over at the park. The basketball hoops were decorated with a large stencil: NOT AFTER 9:00 PM. Like they were not hoops after ten, like the hoops and the poles that supported them turned into giant birds and flew away at the witching hour. Not even ten and they sat still and cold, unused.
There’s so much talk of generations lately. Perhaps it’s a way to make sense of the chaos we’re feeling. We pit Baby Boomers against Gen X and Millennials, with Generation Z bringing up the rear and wading through the garbage left in the wake of the previous generations. Sorry about the catastrophic climate change, kids. Mind your step now.
Earlier in the year, there was talk of a massive festival to celebrate the 50th anniversary of Woodstock, that pivotal moment in the American counterculture of the 1960s. In 1969, some guys got together and decided to put on a music…
oh, you know