This woman sits next to me, tells me things about myself she shouldn’t know. My name, the hospital where I was born, the time I almost walked onto the highway. She was old, wore too many clothes. Her body creaked. She mentioned my first day of kindergarten, when I stood outside after the bell rang and cried. I told her, I could already count to one thousand then, remembering my teacher who held my hand, walked me inside. Yes, I know, she said, grasping my hand, her fingers like magic markers.
- ▼ November (15)