All About My Mother
I’m reading an e-card from
someone who never returns
phone calls. I’m
twenty
pages away from being
done with it. Edna
St.
Vincent Millay has
depressed me
terribly. Perhaps
I’ll
spend the rest
of the day in bed
absorbing my
blankets. Except I
just got a text about
a text about someone
I don’t know who just
died. Wait, let me
make
sure. The rest of the
afternoon has been
more than a day.
Right?
I re-watch a film by
Pedro Almódovar, one
of my favorite movies,
but something puts me
off about it this time.
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