Seriously, what happened to February? Where did it go?
Well, I guess where it went was “class reading.” I haven’t been able to write anything but papers since the semester started. (Seriously, I have to write one every week.) It’s hard to talk about where I am as a writer when I can’t actually do any writing for myself… (Thank goodness this is my last semester!)
But there is something I can post about that does have some (slight) bearing on writing.
There’s this house I pass on my commute to and from campus. As long as I’ve been driving past said house — since late summer 2014 — there’s been a big banner sign across the fence in front of the house. The sign reads “UPS KILLED MY SON” in black letters on a yellow background for UPS, and a red background for the rest of the words. Lately, there’s frequently a car parked in front of the sign, but the sign is still there. And in the past few weeks, I’ve noticed that there’s also a custom neon sign in one window with the same message. (There might be more than one neon sign, but I only notice the one facing in the direction for me to see it on my homeward commute, when it’s dark out.)
I don’t know what the story is behind the sign. I mean, I can picture several plausible explanations, with the most probable one being that the son in question was struck by a UPS truck (either as a pedestrian or in another vehicle) and killed in the accident. But I don’t know what about the situation makes the parent(s) need to put up that sign and leave it up for at least five years. I can imagine that the car parked in front of the sign means that some visitor to the house (perhaps the parent or parents is/are elderly and need someone to come take care of them) is embarrassed by the sign, but can’t talk them into taking it down.
It’s not really my business to figure out what the story there is, and I don’t want to interfere in someone else’s tragedy.
But I do feel like it connects to my writing, because I keep thinking I should try to incorporate that kind of determined desire for vengeance — if that’s even the right thing to call it — from someone with no ability to take action in some of my writing. Though I’m not sure where.