my throat. It didn’t help.
“How much of that do you know?” I asked her.
“All of it,” she said. “Mama read it to me last week.”
That broke something in me.
Twenty-seven years inside, you build walls. You have to. You learn to swallow things. You learn to be a stone. I’d buried my mother through a phone call and didn’t cry. I’d buried my old man the same continue reading …
