The Parade

As promised in the letter Writing Corona, the THR editing team is going to participate as well. As much as I want to resist letting circumstances dictate my work to me, I can’t ask our readers and other editors to do something I wouldn’t do myself. I hope you enjoy it.

-Justin Briley, Editorial Director

A storm rolls in that looks to be of some size and I am steadfastly committed to not letting the world write me. It grows larger, closer, and somehow, more normal. I don't know if it's a small system — a one-off congress of clouds billowing together like dark brains in the sky — or if it's part of something I'll read about tomorrow, next week, next year.

I read once about how history died, but I never read anything about a funeral. It's strange to see it come alive again and have so few to share it with. I was hoping to see more of you here.

Under this sky for the first time since they sent all the kids home from school, my daughters are playing with sidewalk chalk in the driveway and waiting for someone. They were bored, so we let them wear their Halloween princess dresses and get some sun while it lasts. The neighborhood is quiet. Their small voices bounce off every corner, mailbox, and tree. Only my eldest daughter is old enough now to notice the color of the sky. She's old enough now to watch.

Crows along the powerline seem aware of us, and I wonder how this late resurrection must read to those dwarfed, transfiguring angels. I wonder if all resurrections feel like robbery to them.

It's hot. Hot enough for cicadas that won't sing. Too hot for princess dresses and sidewalk chalk. Not too hot for birds, whose songs mix with the echoes of our children and take advantage of silence.

When I say I refuse to let the world write me, what I mean is that I believe I have a story that I can write myself. I don't need help. That I believe this is what makes me a writer, I think.

And so, it's too hot for princess dresses, for sidewalk chalk, and for the silence holding down the neighborhood. I wish the storm would break. The clouds no longer resemble tumorous brains brimming with purpose and instead look like a smear of dark eye shadow across the lid of the world. Little hands, pastel and glittering, begin to plead.

There aren't theories here. I do not have a plan. That's what I'm saying. I'm not making an argument. I'm not a nihilist though; I believe things. I think crises serve interests and powers, and you can study that. You can become a lawyer in the courtroom of history by simply staring at a crisis and asking — cui bono?

But see, we're waiting for someone, and waiting for someone feels rare now. Our house is pregnant but not expecting, and we do not benefit from this contradiction. The first fat raindrops begin to fall. They explode onto a powdery, pastel heart like uneven stars. Like exit wounds. We're about to give up and go back indoors.

Then we hear the horns.

I will not overstate this. I won't compare it to the trumpets of the Rapture, or the cavalry, or whatever. But I will say, three little girls and two parents rose up and stood at attention.

They come crawling through the neighborhood slow as beetles. A line of cars full of smiling teachers, an ad hoc pandemic parade. As they pass by they slow down and toss out buckets of candy by the armful. Our youngest are small enough to be excited purely by the novelty. Our eldest sees faces she knows, but she's still waiting. 

The cars crawling by can't help but evoke a funeral procession, but this is a resurrection. History lives again. So it's appropriate that a funeral procession can also become a celebration. We are, unfortunately, living in interesting times.

But I won't let the times write me, so my eldest daughter is still waiting. Her sisters try to show her their sugary spoils, but she's looking for someone.

Then she waves. It's hard to overstate this part. She waves like a Pentecostal preacher gone silly with the spirit. A red SUV inches by. It never stops, but leaning halfway out is her teacher. She says, "I was hoping to see you here."

-Justin Briley

Dallas, GA