Glen Armstrong


My daughter listens to Summerteeth. The girl needs more than sprinklers and hummingbirds. This might be our last vacation. We are all finding transition difficult.

No one dies. I mean, no one close. Raccoons get hit by cars. Song writers go missing. The little boy who drowned at the lake is still dead. (We rushed her back to the car and claimed we did not really know what was going on, that we hoped the paramedics would make him okay again.) She says her memory of this is cloudy.

We share this world with a lot of unhappy people. No two share the same unhappiness. She emerges from her bedroom for a piece of cold pizza. She sits on the couch with her mother and me, and we all watch a rerun of The Patty Duke Show.