1995: year the weather broke, year Grandfather died, year Mother & Father got into their first argument: these days: Mother is always jealous of Father: these days: Father tells more jokes, makes more people laugh. 1995: year I fell through Mother’s uterus, blood circling my scalp. 1995: year we all become planets. You were born the same day as I was, only far across the city. Your body wrinkled like the balding heads of uncles. Your mother was not mine, but they sounded the same when they screamed. Your father was not mine, but they both had stomachs that looked more like boys drowning in lakes than anything else.
Posted on: Wed, 06 Aug 2014 01:04:02 +0000
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