Life was messy, breakfast eggs cracking in her mother’s hands, yolk spilling, running down onto her slippers. Vivi talked-talked, mumbled to herself, and spit out her meds in the garbage can. She screamed out to the sky in her nightgown and directed her anger toward a line of puffy clouds as they floated on by. She wandered the streets in the same filthy gown over and over until her feet were swollen and blue, sometimes hiding tucking her face beneath a gold, silk scarf, as the daughter Sophia's tears fell into her sweet tea, and rolled over storybook pages. She gained strength as each day passed, for language and books were the teachers, her mother, as she grew-grew, swiftly with the wind, amongst the lull of the field crickets reciting words, under the pale moon. She recorded the rhythm and beat, inside her black journal as it seemed to leap off the pages and dance in the air.
Yes, someone listened.
Yes, someone listened.
