Maria wakes at six. Before bed she ties her hair with red string, but come morning it’s always undone, a jungle of bleached white hair let loose down her back. She screams in her sleep, like my mom every night that summer in the motel with the pool, after we ran away from Jimmy. This is not the only thing they share.
My shirt engulfs her, covering the bruises from last night. I’m sorry, I want to tell her—feel like screaming at her—Forgive me, I’ll be better. But we both know that’s bullshit. I wasn’t raised for better.
Were you raised for better? Then why not feed some hungry kids?1
Short but intense! 😉
Powerful.