Notes: Annapolis

People who walk around shouting scare me. They always have. When I was young, yelling in general was the territory of fathers and coaches. Protestors were of another era. Cheerleaders could shout as long as it was in unison and for the right team, which is Ours. Whoever We are. 

There’s a woman in Annapolis who I presume to be homeless because I see her often — always on the sidewalk and shouting sentences just beyond my comprehension as she walks or picks up the glass pieces of a bottle someone broke in a bar fight last night or just an accident of walking and people white — how we make mistakes and don’t bother using our erasers — just leave a big gash in the page for quickness sake. 

She is enraged. 

The blankness of my face displays as it was trained — the embarrassment of being a girl with an angry father and the guilt of someone who knows the rules too well. 

How do I say beautifully — Can I? No.

She is picking up the pieces I won’t touch.