Wed. June 15th
TEN MILE
I write this in the dark, under the lowered tailgate of Papa's station wagon, with a full strawberry moon turning blood illuminating my words in fluorescent gel. Papa is stumbling around our campfire with flames shooting four feet in the air. If he falls, he'll be charred like Uncle Tonton's burnt beignet.
I crawled under here to get away from Papa's crazy screaming and getting mad at Bobby. He threw a chunk of firewood at Bobby's head, but missed by a mile. No joke.
