I Wish I Could Tell You a Better Story

Some of us never had a mother who mothered.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

I picture the clothes you were buried in. When I see you, I see the red Pumas you laced up, the black skirts you bound with silver pins and the stockings that poured the sun over your limbs. But I suppose you wore something I’d never seen in the half-life since we last spoke. That time on the phone when I said, you make it…