I've held on to everything - except the dining room table your mother passed down, because I was angry with us. I've held on to flawed details of so many memories of you, in your red dress as blinding as the sun in your blue running shorts, topless on the couch, eating grapes as any Roman Goddess would. I've held on to things you touched, to things you said. I've held on to soooo much and still, it would all fit in the back of a car, cats in the backseat to carry with me over oceans and continents: A penance for a failed childhood. feb. 2023
