Hear the quiet incantation of the uncle in the corner, hear my own breath in prostration.
Our league is called the “Downriver League.”
Like many others, when posting pictures of myself and friends on social media, I find myself captioning them #YaranNorthSide.
Before 4 o’ clock, I caught a north-bound train on line 3 from campus to join the protest.
I knew my reasons for wanting to be there were primarily emotional, not logical.
But there he is again, a few pages later, with his tiny cursive handwriting.
"I barely know your kids and I feel like I would jump in front of a bus to stop this shit."
This hair salon auntie also seemed like a somewhat unreliable narrator.
I mourned New York, the relationship, my friend.