A beautiful butterfly lands on Billy’s bruised cheek. Billy’s father staggers near and Billy cringes—the butterfly flies away.
Yellow, green, red, the crayon box inside my head. Orange, purple, blue, I’ll pick a shade to color you.
Diana looked up from her biology homework to stare at her mother, tears welling up in her bright green eyes. “Your eyes are blue and Dad’s are brown, so who in the hell’s my real father?”
“I’m sorry Jim, he was never yours,” she said, pulling the the child away. That was the last time he saw his son.
So I tells him, “My thighs, they been involved in numerous accidents, so ya better have insurance, hon’.” And the devil goes and grabs my ankles and makes me spread my legs.
Without wealth my darling, little American girl quietly died
my private option
I spent two years of my childhood pretending I was a squirrel and collecting acorns. I still stop to pick them up sometimes.
He came into this world with a triumphant howl and as I cradled him in my arms I cried tears of joy. He left this this world for another realm and as I cradled his head once more I bent my head over him letting the tears of sorrow wash over his face.
She took the training wheels off of her daughter’s bicycle that morning, knowing she would have to give her a push later to get started and then let her child ride or fall, while she held her breath, watching.
“Wheeeeeee, Mom, this is fun!”