And this is how it was this afternoon—my daughter and I pink and tired, our edges sharp, match-match, but misaligned.
And it’s hot today—the sun heavy and unyielding, like our moods, my daughter and I, stuck on repeat, a broken record, while my son watched from his perch in the kitchen, cartoon eyes wide.
And then, she blew the hair out of her face, and scowled, “Mama, I can’t stand you.”
Continue reading.
Follow us on
No comments:
Post a Comment