I have something to say. I have a lot of things to say.
But my mind is moving faster than my ability to sort things out and type right now. Faster than my ability to put structure to my thoughts.
I’ve been thinking about 9/11. And I’ve been thinking about 11/11. About children who hear their dads’ last words and children who don’t. Children who wonder.
When my parents got into long talks they had this convention they called the flag. Like, if my mom was telling a story and my dad had something to say but he didn’t want to interrupt, he’d hold up one finger and say: I have a flag. And my mom would say: Yes? And he would say: Flag that blue car. Or: Flag Boston. Or: Flag those chocolate chip cookies. Or: Flag your mother.
What it meant was…when you’re done with your story, remind me of this detail. Because I have something to say that relates to it. That’s connected. But only tangentially.
The flag worked well. It kept communication going, even when stories and ideas became impossibly convoluted.