evening in may
we went to the prairie this evening after dinner. walked out on the dock and talked to some nice photographers. the water is high this year, we all agree. two alligators got into a scuffle. i brought sangria from the restaurant and drank it through a straw.
we did the same thing the day curfews and lockdowns went into effect, and we weren’t the only ones; hundreds of cars lined the highway shoulder to watch the sun set on the last day we could feign normalcy. most of the shoulder is barricaded now.
i was emotional when we pulled up a few hours ago. how many chapters have i tried to close here?
/
mother’s day is always hard, but this year was worse. my family doesn’t talk much; the women in my family, the strongest i know, are silent. i wait for them to turn feral, to bare their teeth and shriek into the night. i want for them the darkness to fill their eyes, for hate to become them. the problem is that i would still hope for them to return in the morning: familiar perfume / a laugh / the touch of skin that i grew within.