MotherMy mother is a falling star. Leaving all that is golden about her in her trail until she is nothing but blackness, or maybe a grey rock that crashes through a window and into someone's loft.Mother
She was the bubbling youth, all the freshness of spring and attractiveness of summer molded into a human being. At least that's how I remember her. It's not how my siblings will. They might treasure memories of dinners and bed-time stories the way I treasure the memory of girl's night out with the daughter in tow.
I always found falling stars sad. Bleeding out all their glitter on the way down to rock hard ground. Going from som
The Things We Never SayMy Dear,The Things We Never Say
We've come again to this. You're in the bedroom slamming drawers and packing suitcases, crying on the phone to your mother. I can hear the corners of your conversation: "Can you believe it?" and "...should've left years ago." I think I heard a "worthless son of a bitch" bounce against the closet. (Let's hope, this time, you leave it on its hinges.)
I wonder what you're wearing. You ripped your blouse getting out of the car tonight—caught it on that three carat platinum bracelet I bought you for Valentine's Day—so I can't imagine it's survived y
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