“I’m going to bed.” My mother gets up from the couch. I’m not looking at her, haven’t been for a while.
“When I see you tomorrow you’d better have taken that thing out of your nose.”
So much for self-expression, I think.
Standing at the garden’s edge. Mom puts the shoebox in the dirt, covers it. Some tears. A word about death. My older sister looks bored.
“Can we get another one?” my little sister says before the hamster in the ground goes cold.