walkerde
mother didn't come back from the bars last night. i sat in my room playing pinochle for a while and went asleep, but at 6 in the morning I woke up. she was laying the doorfinrame with vomit dribbling from the corner of her mouth. i called the police but they didn't come in time. when she died, my mother was wearing the dress she wore to her senior prom. she always said it reminded her of when she was young and good-looking and optimistic, and when she put it on she felt those things again. the dress was made of velvet.
something in the sand eating my feet, taking a look through spectacles at a branching seashore line. each wavering piece of clothing lands in the dunes, and I can't understand, nor will i ever understand, why she won't love me.
writing since 2010 · 4 entries · 3 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means nathan showed up.
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the words nathan reaches for
loveskywatereatingunderstandmotherdressdadsandygrainsatmosphereblowmom'sfishingtackletrees