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Dizzy glimpsed her reflection in the mirror and had the same sinking reaction she always did to her appearance because she looked exactly like a frog in a wig. She couldn’t believe this was what people had to see when they looked at her. She wished they got to see something better, like Samantha Brooksweather’s head, for instance.
Not to mention how scared she was to die or to go to sleep or to lie there in the dark or to leave a room if her mom was in it or to be ugly forever.
This was why, long ago, Miles made Sandro an honorary member of the human queer community. I love communities! the dog had told Miles that day. Miles had been ten.
I get surprised when I look in the mirror and see that I’m there, that I’m actually a me and not a part of her. What part? A freckle maybe.
There’s an invisible artery joining the hearts of mothers and daughters through which pain is transferred from one generation to the next. Maybe it’s the same for fathers and sons, I wouldn’t know. But I don’t have those words then, so I say the ones I do have again: “We’re the same, Mom.”
What the actual fuck? repeated Sandro, who then began barking. Miles wanted to bark.
If people bear the trauma of their ancestors, doesn’t it follow they also bear their rhapsodies? If there is generational pain passed down, mustn’t there also be generational joy?
He collected these moments, then relived them safely, constantly, privately when he ran, when he read, when he showered, when he breathed.
Was it normal for an unavailable guy to touch an available guy like this?
Oh, he didn’t know anything about anything. He was such a rough draft, had no idea what parts of himself would make it, what crap parts would be cut.
Sandro barked so loud, the roof blew off the world.
