Kent-Monning has the rare gift of transmitting raw, bodily experience to her reader.
The things he said were, perhaps, a bit too complex for us at 14. But I can vividly remember the moment I finally understood precisely what he meant.
But like any other teenager, the universe was quick to show me the error in my ways. It happened quickly and easily on a night that shocked itself with intracloud lightning.
The Machine didn’t work well, not by a long shot. But, in the end, it worked just enough.
And now, days later, as I field my own self-initiated questions with no ready answers, I make a promise to myself to make my memories matter. To write.
I’ve been looking at myself in the mirror above the sink.