Category: Series

my mother is all silk skin and broken knuckles. when i was younger, i would count the wrinkles on her fingers and the lines across her palm. i wanted to know why she had more lines than i did. i never figured it out. my mother is all soft rain and wet grass. her hair hangs to the base of her neck and her smile stretches to the left more than to the right. i think mine stretches more to the right. my mother doesn’t like things out of order. every nail polish, every empty shoe box, every ripped open envelope has its place.  even people had a place. she taught me the importance of silence, the value behind a closed door and i had practiced so much that even