no words big enough for my regret in failing at substitute mothering. or even being a good-enough sister. he needed more than everything. in the end, couldn't even say i loved him,& invented teeny-tiny cats to say it for me.
I'm a cook. And I write, sometimes about food, mostly poems. I make stuff. I get lost. I'm worried about vanishing bees, melting icecaps, the decrease of civility in the world, seedless watermelons, and whether there will be enough time for me to get it all right.
1 comment:
Intriguing. Lovely.
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