I have a five-year-old. She’s fierce and stubborn. She’s sweet and empathetic.
Is years I waiting for God to smile on me. And is years the devil pissing on me. Sometimes I think I is the orphan child of the both a them.
You had terminal, aggressive cancer this time, and today was the day you died from it at home . . .
The wind won’t stop banging the bougainvillea against our fence, and the tap tap tap is beating into my skull. My eyes dart around the bedroom, but all I see are hulking shapes. I know they’re our dresser and bookshelf, but at night they look meaningless.