Off the Record — Sentence Structure

May 31, 2026 family

Instead

I watch him deposit his belongings onto the table.
The warm-weathered hands separate
with ritualistic meaning.
Four white articles fall out of the black garbage bag.
Half of them are socks.
The hands that sort do not show
how little they have.
Instead they say I have a system.
Instead they say I am still here.

I watch him as the shears move through his beard.
The jersey shorts and unkempt hair separate
misguided perceptions of worth.
Two people negotiate what can stay or go.
One eye catches mine in the mirror.
The smirk on his face does not show
a loss of identity.
Instead it says I guess you were right.
Instead it says Don’t make this a thing.

Illustration: a heavy impasto oil painting of dark gnarled branches forming a web at center, with small red-pink sparks scattered through cross-hatched lines on a slate and ochre ground.

I watch him enter the cheap motel room I rented.
Nothing but circumstance separate
us from each other’s economic stability.
Two signs declare what cannot be done in the spartan room.
No signs mention the two days he must spend on the street after his stay.
He explained he was prepared for me
to cut him off.
Instead he means I’ll be fine if you leave.
Instead he means It’s okay if you do.

Illustration: an abstract oil painting of a sinuous yellow-green path winding through deep olive and dark green ground, with curling rust-red and grey-blue flourishes.

I watch him in the mirror as I drive away.
The window down and radio up separate
me from him with giddy relief.
One week remains until we repeat this process.
One election stands between my brother and potential change.
I think to myself There but for the grace of God
as I speed away.
Instead I mean I hope I am helping him.
Instead I mean I don’t know how to help him.

March 9, 2026 atwood · threshold · meaning

It Was There You Lived

You got the ending you expected.
It was fine.
You died.

You worked for something a bit more than fine.
This led to a few complications.
You also died.

You authored an original story,
with new characters experiencing
once-in-a-lifetime events.
You even let it mean something for a while,
before letting it not for longer.
You still died.

Watercolor: two faint figures haloed in warm autumn light — orange, rust, and sepia bursts on a torn-paper ground, with the suggestion of newsprint at the edges.

The thing is—
and read closely, as you might blink and miss it—
Between the beginning and the end
of said story,
There was a single afternoon in October.
You know the one.
When someone you used to know,
maybe used to love,
laughed at something you didn’t mean to say.

And for just that moment,
it all stopped for you.
The plot ceased to move forward,
with no ending in sight.

All that remained were the two of you,
nestled into some whitespace on the page.
Taking all the time you needed.

Watercolor: two pale figures standing close in a bright horizontal threshold of light, framed by torn dark walls of peeled rust and shadow.

It was there you found a reason why.
It was there you lived.
Dying was just something that happened later.