![]() My mother was not simply a conniving whore, a Jezebel, a puta, a monster, as you will come to understand. And I can tell her story, from the inside. Maybe I was just a comma, my bones still soft, but I intended to hang on. Maybe my mother didn't feel the same way, not yet. I love my mother more than she loves herself, and I know her better than she knows herself, because I have just the tiniest distance. ![]() ![]() How much did Scheherazade love the sultan? Or Joseph love Pharaoh? How can we pry apart love and need? Three minutes without her and my heart would stop. Nothing was private from me though, and no one had ever been in that deep. ![]() In February, I was an inch long, all head, webbed hands and feet, a see-through thing, my skin as thin as paper. In February, 2002, I was an eight week old fetus, too feathery for my mother to feel me, although she knew I was there. ![]() It's a dog barking, a field of papery corn stalks. February's sky is a bruised sunset at four in the afternoon. I'll start in February, when my mother, Evie, took off for the frontier.įebruary is a brittle, elegant month in the northeastern United States. ![]()
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