It was cloudy that day, warmer than usual in Pasadena, Texas. By evening it was still in the upper eighties. Texans will tell you, it’s not just the heat; humidity's so high, puts ideas in your head. Some say it's why, on November 14, 2008, at the end of a call to 911, one man walked away and two others lay dead. 

The caller's name was Arlen Hunter, a computer technician, and a native son of the Lone Star State. Twice divorced and newly retired, his days were spent in the woods hunting deer, or fishing for crappie, catfish and bass.

That night in November, at 10:33, he sat in his kitchen, and stared at a box of Krispy Kreme donuts. He was trying to decide between chocolate and glazed. He went with the chocolate; life was too short. His second wife, Judy, was always at him about eating better. She yammered away, first with the donuts, then with the beer. Like a grown man can’t have a Bud now and then. She kept on and on and he cold cocked

I never buried him. He's inside. He can't hurt me anymore. Not directly. Yet he hurts me everyday, whenever I remember. I try not to.

I want to bury him as deep as possible. I want to move on with my life. It's been over a decade. And he's still not gone. Not from the inside.

Doctors gave me chemicals. Anxiety meds. Depression meds. They don't work. Some days, I white-knuckle it. Let the roller coaster take me, hoping to be let off soon.

Other days, the unfairness of life

We were meeting for lunch at the Maplewood Mall
noon you said
and don’t be late like you usually are
but I had forgotten to set the alarm
and my clothes were wrinkled
my hair was a fright
couldn’t find my car keys to save my life
they finally turned up in the vegetable drawer
I put on some lipstick and opened the door
and Monitor lizards were in the front yard
Komodo dragons wherever I looked
and one waddled up as Komodos will do
I gave him