(Picture swiped from Sippican. He won’t mind. The table in the picture is now in my bedroom. Writing style also more or less swiped from, or at least inspired by, Sippican. He’s good. Also more succinct than I.)
I write on the kitchen table. It’s the only place there’s enough room, but there’s really not enough room. Dad frowns and tells me to get that pile of scraps off the table before he plunks down his bowl of beans. Bean soup is the only thing he can make really well. And even if it’s not made really well, it’s really hot. We eat a lot of it.
Mama died a couple years ago, when I was ten. Dad still gets in the hay every year. That stuff makes him sneeze, but there’s a market for it. The Mennonite people around here still drive horses. I write about them sometimes. I wear their dresses most times. They have a lot of girls older than me, and the dresses are comfortable. Dad says they’re the right price.
Mostly I write about Mama. Mama died, but if I write about it enough, it will feel like it didn’t necessarily happen to me. (more…)