several chapbooks. Letitia

When my husband Zach leaves home for a weekend Aikido seminar or a job training or anywhere that involves me sleeping alone and him driving long distances, I think He could be dead right now and I wouldn’t even know it, at least not for a few minutes, or maybe even hours. It seems impossible that I could even think of him alive—think of telling him something or curse him for leaving his whiskey glass half full by the bed where I spill it—when he could be gone. This isn’t anxiety or obsession.

There’s something comforting about the low-budget nature of It, the general shoddiness of the special effects and the score, about the fact that you would never mistake this for anything but an early ’90s TV movie—a very special Stephen King adaptation lasting over several nights and no doubt recorded on VHS by families around the country, commercials artfully snipped by whoever had the remote control.