Django lives with me for 18 years and five months, in a myriad of settings, alongside a dubious host of characters, and then, one day, before getting in a truck and driving away, he sits me down in front of his piano. “I have a song for you,” he tells me. “It’s called The Farewell.” […]
I don’t plan to cry when he leaves—that’s not the girl I am at all—but it sneaks up on me when I put my head down in the crook of his neck. His shirt is so soft and it strikes me hard and fast that no one is going to be here to tuck me […]
He says some of the most ridiculous things I’ve never heard. Like when I show up in the low, black corset, a willful adaptation of the woman my mother wanted me to be. And I get, “Oh my god. Who is the retarded nanny that dresses you?” Maybe I’m supposed to be offended. But it’s far too funny […]
Half of my family was staying on the east coast the summer it all went down. The other half was supposed to meet us there. Not all of them made it. I was eleven. “Stop faking,” Mum demanded, when I came to her about the staggering pain. By that time, I was well aware that […]
my delusions 