Roxanne Jo MItchell
Dusk. Winter. Starting to rain, and what luck! You’re waiting for the No. 37 bus as cars hurtle by above on the upper deck, and (luckier still!) right here on the ground, at alarming proximity to your book bag. Headlights blink on as night falls and rain begins in earnest, and checking south again for the No. 37, you turn away from the highway toward the chain link separating the evening rush from Mount Calvary Cemetery. That’s when you see it in the fleeting taillight glare, a sizable gray headstone engraved: HELLO. And you’re reminded that you may be pissed, but you’re alive.
