The Delivery

by Mara White

I’m his social worker. I’m his social worker. I’m his social worker.

Sometimes there is success to be measured even in the failures.

“Strong,” my mother says, patting her own flabby triceps. Pantomime is my mother’s main form of communication, except for yelling at my father in Russian.

“If you touch me, I’ll scream.” “I would hope so. I’m more of a moaner, myself.”