fiction and musings from a gay black dude with delusions above his station
After Mom died, I couldn’t listen to Brahms for about four years. Truth be told, all classical music remained highly problematic. For whatever reason, though, Brahms topped the don’t touch list, the trigger-warning list. I can recall a conversation between my mom, one of my brothers, and me, rhapsodizing about the music we loved. Brahms…
Dinosaur. Dinosaur. Dinosaur. I’m lost. I enter rooms and forget where I am. I drive streets I’ve known since childhood aimlessly. I make wrong turns to correct other wrong turns. Robert called me when both Mom and Dad, in their turns, passed on. I had to call my other siblings once I got word from…
