Five sweaters and a hat find me in the kitchen. Predictably, mother left cigarettes and no note, so I have one over orange juice.
And I make myself concerned suddenly with just where those same mothers have gone absent to, with the indoor weather something now intolerable.
She said, “You bring the poon, we’ll bring the doom.”
She was always down for trouble.
Always in some kind of it.
Kicked out of the restaurant for dancing topless on the table.
Fired for shaving her head in the Executive Bathroom.
Hunted by a loan shark with one eye for refusing to pay her debt.