
Lost in Alaska, 1984. They loved it. I did not.
(Verb): mired, miring: to plunge and fix in mire; cause to stick fast in mire,to involve, entangle.
December 29th. I don’t know why this date stuck, because I never got a chip or token, but it did. I counted back the years. 1985; twenty nine years ago. My memory of that day begins with a hangover, the kind that feels like your brains are pushing your eyeballs out of your head and your knees feel like play-do. Two boys and their bicycles and a red pick up truck. It was cold in Wellfleet Massachusetts and it didn’t help that the parking lot ended at a steep sand dune, then the ocean, battle ship gray and angry, sending a wind across the pavement that went right to your marrow. I doubt I felt the cold as I watched the two little blond heads circling on their bikes, yelling to each other, one age five on his two-wheeler and the three year old on the Big Wheels, spinning out in the sand.
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