Triangles

by Ellen Hopkins

HOME Is haven. A place with familiar corners to tuck yourself into when you need a bottomless cry or to let loose a bitter scream, sans a single judgmental eye. It is where you know you’re safe, alone.

Food and death. Somehow, the two have become interwoven in the human psyche. We eat, to celebrate our living. We eat, to feed our memories. We eat, to keep from talking when words are meaningless.

But, hey. She’s my mother. It’s her job to assail me with advice. As her daughter, it’s my prerogative to take it or leave it.