I take one more drive across town thinking about the retired welding
teacher easing over that rise seeing the parking lot full of white men. I wonder
if he thought he would die in the jungle [where no Vietcong ever called him
[N-word] ] or he would die in front of the bowling alley [without ever having
been inside] or die in the swimming pool [without ever having been in it, except
when drained, and the police had him in their sights]. Or if, because he was a
young man, he would never die. I attach V to my driving-around thoughts.
An object unworthy of love she thought she was.
It was a cri de coeur.
Those of our get had given her a nom de guerre: V.