NoraSnow

I sat in an IHop before noon. The bustle and clatter and murmur of a large city coming in for breakfast was a relaxing backtrack to a long, difficult conversation. Not difficult as in uncomfortable, as there was great ease in the flow of words, simply that the subject matter was particularly grim. A woman with honey brown skin served coffee, a boy with a heart tattooed on his thumb gave condiments. We talked easily over the hushed roar of a full restaurant. It was the same conversation we had had before when I first arrived, and once a week back before my upcoming departure, a heavy, black fog of a problem that seemed to be constantly carry