"Tell me
about your parents. What are they like?" she would ask, a classic
opening gambit.
"Normal," I replied, trying to smile while thinking distant, impractical, irrelevant,
moody, useless.
. . .
"What are your earliest memories?"
"Breakfast." A
stuffed puppy toy I still have today. Putting a magnifying glass up to an
ant lion's sinkhole. Kissing a boy and making him strip for me because I
didn't know any better. Falling into a fountain and banging my head; the
result, five stitches in the emergency room and an abiding fear of
drowning. In the emergency room again when Mom drank too much, followed by
the relief of almost a year of sobriety.
Of all my answers, "Breakfast" annoyed her the most.
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