Daniel Romo

I told my wife the luxury Cybertruck we passed on the
405 South is bulletproof, and she found her Bible she

thought was lost under my passenger seat when we
arrived home, and somewhere between departure and

arrival, she laughed and asked, What is this world coming
to? but I didn’t answer because how does one respond

when the trinity of traffic, impenetrability, and book
of Revelations are concerned? They’re discontinuing

my sweetener at the coffee shop and I appreciate that
I was given a personalized heads-up, but it sucks when

you know you will no longer be able to savor a flavor
in which amidst life’s various seasons you both swam

laps and drowned in. There are libraries where people
are loaned to readers to share their stories and my

autobiography might be titled Flailing at Midnight in an
Ocean of Green Tea with Anklefuls of Heavy Seaweed but

Mustering the Will to Doggie Paddle Back to an Open-armed
Shore. So often when it seems our limbs are shattered

oars and we are left to float sans current or hope, a
mystery tide guides us back to familiar land and we

can choose to look back at it as plunge or purification.
If someone were to search for me, they could most

likely find me somewhere between belief and the self-
help section. And after they checked me out and I

narrated, they might marvel as I paused my story mid-
sentence to pull yet another piece of kelp from my

mouth that acts a permanent bookmark reminding
me never to lose my place or faith.