fffffffffffffffffMy mother’s father told her that she would die like a mosquito. Not
ffffffffffffffffffilled with a sweetness so red that it leaves a mark after it’s been
fffffffffffffffffkilled, but slapped out of existence because of the ease of the act.
fffffffffffffffffThis coming from the man that named her after the most important
fffffffffffffffffwoman in the bible. The one that eventually just disappears from
fffffffffffffffffthe text. Whatever. Men and their bed-time stories. My mother
fffffffffffffffffwon’t listen to Whitney Houston because it makes her think of the
fffffffffffffffffyear her son died even though it happened four years prior. We
fffffffffffffffffhave brunch together and talk about how many years it’s been. She
fffffffffffffffffdoesn’t want to cry and I don’t want to cry in front of her so I do it
ffffffffffffffffffor both of us when I get home, or on my way to the train, or in
fffffffffffffffffclass, quietly to myself, in the low rumbling parts of my gut. My
ffffffffffffffffffather wrote in my 5th grade time-capsule letter that I am like her in
fffffffffffffffffthe worst and best ways. He says I care about people. He also writes
fffffffffffffffffthat I am better than him. He does not mention how he thinks I will
fffffffffffffffffdie but I read it in the undertones.