An Excerpt of Sundays

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I did not see my grandmother between her stroke and her death. 

She was a proud woman; I was a cowardly girl. 

I realize that men outnumbered women in the room.

I watched my body leaning away thinking isn’t PTSD a funny thing. 

He says his name is ‘chad molester’ and I bite my tongue not to scream don’t you know that’s not funny?

but instead I take a walk by myself at the river.

 I don’t like when she’s alone with someone and neither does he, because I don’t trust her with herself and he doesn’t trust others with her. 

This is enough, the room full of smoke, the alcohol sticky floor, the pictures of naked women on the wall. 

He started a blog with things he’d like to do with me that only I have the link to – and it’s not rock climbing or hiking. 

I wore my hiking boots every day with a sundress. 

That’s how he said he knew I liked women before I did. 

She doesn’t believe when I tell her women are that kind of beautiful – she thinks I say it for attention. 

The two of them take my hands and pull me in half down the middle. 

A gauzy curtain with dragonflies divides the room I share with my sister in half.

We lie on the pile of mattresses surrounded by boxes sticking our tongues out like lizards. 

The first time I saw a lizard climb up a wall I held the hand of the first guy I started pursuing under a table.

I lie on my bed with open windows and a fan, sweat staining my sheets. 

Shadows dance across the wall as cars pass outside. 

Above me street lights appear and disappear. 

There is no place I can fall asleep better than a moving car at night – this was true when I was two and it is true now.   

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