A luminous blackness is what I recall entering before dawn the autumn I was twelve to do my paper route, in a grid of streets with European and Iroquoian names.
From home on Montcalm Street overlooking Lake Ontario, I zigzagged along streets named Van Buren, Cayuga, Schuyler, and Seneca until I arrived at the alley alongside the Oswego River, where we paperboys rolled the Syracuse Post-Standard into porch-seeking missiles.
A bleak time suck is what I imagine when I consider googling “news fall 1962,” to add a veneer of verisimilitude over my memory from boyhood, as if our missiles needed warheads.
But memory doesn’t need facts, only honesty – we’ll be sustained by that, plus a mouthful of names.
Dave Conlin Read