Writing about things you don't know how to write about yields a weird non-form sometimes, and kind of accidentally reads like a June of '44 song:


Wait one more thing. I know class is over but before I send you into the weekend just this one thing: I don’t have it in my lesson plan, there’s no standard for this, but just please sit. Just this one more thing: Spring brings weird weather sometimes. You know that, I suppose, but listen: The house next to Khaing Thin and Kyaw Kyaw’s house went up when a branch went down on some electrical lines. The wind blew the flames their way, and wait — one more thing: It’s not in the syllabus: a story about refugees starting over again. Ashes still smoldering early Easter morning. Not far away, Samirria was arguing with the father of their baby girl. She was going to cook Easter dinner, their first as a family, but for this argument. Wait. You need to hear this: The argument went too far. What should I have said to Samirria on her way out the door? What unwritten lesson about young men and emotions and violence? Somewhere in another classroom he missed a lesson about young men and emotions and violence and not shooting your lover in the face. And I learned about it all on Monday morning, ten minutes before standing in the hallway, doling out fake smiles and “how was your breaks.”

So wait, just one minute more,

please fill out this survey,

tell me what to do.