Sinclair Spratley

Issue No. 18 • Spring 2017

Between my birth and the birth of my younger brother three years later my parents move from Alabama to New Mexico. My father had left the army to avoid being deployed during the first wave of Desert Storm and took up a job as a night cleaner at Intel. He had to wear one of those space-age suits that were advertised in Intel's early commercials. Their strange look combined with my young brain created a kind of mystical understanding of my father. We lived in a tiny apartment in the Westside of Albuquerque, just the three of us. My mom recalls nostalgic stories of driving along Coors, the access point to the West, late at night, street lights streaking and illuminating our journey. Thinking of the three of us, my parents not much older than I am now, fills me with a kind of warmth. Whenever I feel overwhelmed or in over my head I think of those young kids, carving out a little life despite society's consternation. I imagine a cozy scene of light in the face of scrutiny. I think of a quiet little life of love and hope and the future.