Phone said 2:45pm. This means school is out, scream and shout. In case future daughter/granddaughter is reading this, a few things to note: all students wear tiny gray uniform skirt, boxers poke underneath.
She puts on long, droopy earrings and stares back at me in the mirror. Try these, she says, and hands me a pair of danglies. You have perfect ears, she says. Look, she says. Perfect. Look at your earlobe.
"My mom doesn’t understand heartbreak because she’s never had her heart broken. She’s always been the one to break hearts, the one to close the door on people, the one to say goodbye."
“My mother is gifted with forgetfulness. She calls it a gift, anyway. It is a unique ability to simply forget the bad stuff.”
"Asking my mother about her experience in the ’80s is a bit like asking my dog about his former life as a stock broker—so far removed from my reality that I find it difficult to comprehend."