Mother speaks of suicide. She yearns for death. I grow tired of this conversation. Tired of advising her to seek help. Tired of watching her stand on a ledge.
I know now that her illness keeps her strong. We will all perish, long before she does. An alien species will take over the Earth, and she will be there, boring the green king with her depression. Orca whales will perform their first opera, and she will interrupt it with her own song of sorrow.
Long ago, mother taught me to press lightning bugs into my dress. I ran around the village that saw her grow up, like a tiny goddess, free and in command of I-know-not-what. I did not mean to cause any harm. But those were her ways, and all she could teach.
I have sent out my manuscript to a handful of literary agents. Already, my work has been rejected by several of them.
I feel sick. I am not sick. I am always sick.
My socks are wet, and they are one of the few pairs I own. I have always found shopping for socks terribly depressing.