the fact that nothing compares to the pain of losing Mommy when I was thirteen, nothing, though I didn’t exactly lose her, the fact that she lingered on for years, the fact that I watched my mom turn to mush in my arms, mush, the fact that the whole world’s based on mush, like that soggy old lemon drizzle cake, dust to dust, mush to mush, much of a mushness, charm school, and that is why I don’t like remembering things, the numbness of muted beings,
