I pull off my shoes, sliding my feet through the sand as I make my way to the water’s edge, where I stand very still, trying to decide which way to go.
Stacey Hohman McClain
My mother always comes home from work late, but this summer she’s been coming home even later.
She sludged through her waking hours, a once-award-winning architect now walking in a blind haze through the aisles of Target, impressed with herself on the days she didn’t put her underwear on inside out.
Always have a long-term project and do a little each chance you get. Make sure it takes years, he admonished my sister and me. A project you never think you’ll finish.
I was thinking how quiet the world could seem when Melina was quiet. How, at moments like this, so hard won, three didn’t seem like such a bad number.
Alma knows this child. Twenty years ago this child was her daughter. Like Becca, she lives in a force field where the slightest touch startles her. Sure enough, when her mother inches over to whisper in her ear, the child pulls away. Alma knows this child. A hug or a kiss would make her flinch. Alma and her husband hold their forks like scepters. They can’t eat. They can’t drink. The child glances at them, flaps.
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