





As a child, I rejoiced in making French braids and high buns out of its thick curls. I wrote my own stories within the impenetrable knots of marriage and motherhood, weaving through her silky strands that seemed to extend for miles. The comb that would agitate my own coiled hair would billow through hers, without the slightest effort.
thirty on paper in truth, it’s twenty it’s all I have yours, ours, mine 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th and then– twenty to eat, rest, talk–
October 31st, 2012 I woke up super early to pack all my things for that evening– I was to go to the Ballet. It was one
