By: Brooks Dawson
George Washington didn’t have a middle name and never went to college. He never got to go study in London, but he was an avid reader & self-educated. She was a hollow youth bore to the world with pre-broken bones and nonexistent brakes. Blinking acceptance that 8,036 days have found a way to be renamed as memories questioning current spaces and the decisive pathways that served as unknowing hosts. Today the sky delivers weathered attacks from the North. It seems like God is crying. He is not the only one. This is what an unanswered prayer sounds like.
Washington became a slave owner at the age of 11, but he freed them all when he died. He inherited 10 slaves from his father. When he died there were 300 living at his estate. The walls here are thin. Every word is heard. Another showcase that passion isn’t measured in decibels, that volume was never the key to any emotion. The confines of privacy revealing her pain, the stories kept close to heart. As if your pictures could promise the life they propose. Your eyes seek solace trying to know that you haven’t been wasting your time, that there really is a rhythm in the night. This is the price paid, casting coins, wishing well.
He was blessed with an athletic frame and quickly came to love dancing. Thomas Jefferson once described him as “the best horseman” of his time. Is there a right way to tell someone to stop crying? As if another hopeless person could promise a better future. She likes to pretend that she can hide in the grooves of a good record. The thick cut of a stumptown print. People pine for the furtive tales she keeps so well. These are stoic secrets known to only her closest confidants. I now find myself with a burden, unsure of where to put this heavy load. His wife burned every letter he sent her. He lost more battles than he won.