Upon reading that Muhammed Ali was banned from boxing for three years, I wondered what he did come August. This August. That August. When all drafts are welcome, and all quarrels quick(er) to quiet.

“Charyut means attention.” Master Lee stands at the head of the class, his back to the long wall of mirrors. “And kyungnet means bow.” The Taekwondo instructor bows to the roomful of new students. 

The monastery was a dead building, resuscitated only after a master entered. Traditional pagoda, red and orange cake of tri-tiered imperial eaves. Double doors, meant for giants.

You hear a sound downstairs and, as you round the corner of the hallway to find out what the cat has knocked over this time, a man steps through the dining room window. The image of the blond hairs on his calf glowing in the sunlight freezes in your memory as you register that something is very wrong. You scoop up the toddler who followed…

It started, like most things do, with one step. One step into the park, to watch the birds sit on one tree, then fly to another, as they traded news like young parents in the park on the benches. One step into the park, to watch the dogs sniff a trail that moved from tree to hole or along a fence. One step to another…