Daddy’s post-script is the truth—Mama is beautiful. Her shiny black hair falls to the small of her back. Her impossibly green eyes can set you on your way, or pull you in and draw from you a confession for crimes you have not yet even contemplated.
I’m a strong swimmer, I have a /
good job, it’s embarrassing to still hope / to be loved.
Her incompetent doctor said she should simply learn to live with pain. So she got a second opinion. And here she was, in this waiting room that resembled the purgatory she was no doubt headed toward.