Separation Their darting eyes may be searching for hope. More likely they’re on the run, and lonely fingers join the race, clicking and tapping, knocking on doors that swing wide, happy for the visit, see - engagements build platforms and traffic digs graves, selling anesthetic at the cost of fulfillment. I understand how this happens when you barricade your soul against a hundred year storm. We wait, but wonder, what if it never ends? That feels like drowning, so they paddle, paddle, paddle, frantically away. If I saw someone sinking as I walked down the row, I’d put hand on shoulder and look into eyes. I’d speak, or whisper, and smile. Comfort would come from my presence, not words, and how can I send that through Zoom? If only we could pray.
Blake Kilgore spent most of his first three decades in Texas and Oklahoma. Now, he lives in New Jersey with his wife and four sons, where he’s beginning his twenty-third year teaching history to junior high students. That’s how his love for story began – recounting the (mostly) true stories from olden times. Eventually, he wanted to tell stories of his own, and you can find some of these in Barely South Review, Deep South Magazine, The Sandy River Review, and other fine journals. New work is forthcoming in Crack the Spine and Coe Review. To learn more, go to blakekilgore.com