It was a clear October night. My sisters and I piled into the old red Chevy with our stepfather Dan, and headed outside of town for the hospital where my mother was in the mental ward. None of us spoke; we hardly ever spoke in those years. Dan kept his eyes on the road, chain-smoking Dorals. I stared through the glass, street lights passing over my hooded eyes. As we neared the outskirt, the sky suddenly opened out into space. I thought of nothing. I didn’t think of my mother. I didn’t think of the speed of change. I stared up into the stars where I didn’t have to feel anything. It’s okay to be lost when you’re reminded how small you are, how little your voice is.
We swung into the nearly empty parking lot and walked to a group of picnic tables under Read More