Friday, January 26
by Amy
I love my Father. I love that he’s hip and cool and works at the paper. I love that he’s gruff and cynical and stodgy.
My Mother is a balloon head, in more ways than I can count. She still wears puffy hair and doesn’t understand where I came from or why I think the way I do. The last time I saw her, she asked me if I was into girls. I told her that girls weren’t my thing, but I appreciated how much courage it took her to ask.
Her whole body relaxed. Her shoulders slumped back and then she asked me, “Well, then honey, why don’t you ever wear dresses then?”
I told her that I thought dresses made it easy for men to fuck me and I wasn’t easy.
It was the last time I talked to her. Whenever I see them now, she won’t look me in the eye. She turns her head if she has to say anything, as if I was across the room.
