Monday. September 12, 2016. Miami Beach spraying with naled, 6 AM. My grandson's middle school in the target zone and my daughter not believing; unwilling to grasp — refusing.
"I turned off our AC while the spraying went on," a young mother had said, her off-stare on the TV screen, camera panning to her toddler's hand.
The color of your outfit, its luxuriant cotton tunic top, skirt ankle length, Your smile and halo of brown hair surrounding on the dock, cheerful like the concentric buttercup circles clothing you. An exuberant daffodil-like sun, an outer pink rim on ivory cream, you having morphed into yourself from my daughter's gait, she a background commanding the children to keep moving alongside the dock as the water began its shimmer of sunlight the Zika neurotoxin naled supposedly dissolving in brightness while my daughter believing it — safe — to send her son, my grandson, to school even as those planes droned like airborne concentration camps, their payload swarming the children below.
Maybe you a reassuring angel yet look where that trusting got you.
"I turned off our AC while the spraying went on," a young mother had said, her off-stare on the TV screen, camera panning to her toddler's hand.
The color of your outfit, its luxuriant cotton tunic top, skirt ankle length, Your smile and halo of brown hair surrounding on the dock, cheerful like the concentric buttercup circles clothing you. An exuberant daffodil-like sun, an outer pink rim on ivory cream, you having morphed into yourself from my daughter's gait, she a background commanding the children to keep moving alongside the dock as the water began its shimmer of sunlight the Zika neurotoxin naled supposedly dissolving in brightness while my daughter believing it — safe — to send her son, my grandson, to school even as those planes droned like airborne concentration camps, their payload swarming the children below.
Maybe you a reassuring angel yet look where that trusting got you.
