I cover my baby up in a torn, fuzzy blanket, I protect from the elements much greater, for us such fanciful specs on the expansive oceans, beneath the ceaseless skies, the wind’s ferocity, I breathe and struggle blanketing my tiny tot.
“Ever think of making A Sardine on Vacation an audio book? It has lots of dialogues.” I would have, but publishers are keen on their audio products following large hard copy sales. “You said you were against audio books,” Joe T. breaks in. Against listening to them.
Mary wonders how her daughter would seem with the sound on. She is sure that she would sound like any other woman politician on the other side. She could not listen to her own daughter, she realizes as she closes the video on her device.
Half a decade after our father’s death, Ricard took his own life. Too weak from wracking pain, he couldn’t wait for natural causes to bring him a last breath. I was badly shaken. I had lost half of my soul and most of my conscience.
Let someone other than she, she decides, take the rap for causing an embarrassment of witches. My sorrow is my castle. She winks, and fifteen miles away, some car runs over a cat. Simple earthly mechanics.
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