I’ve learned how to spot a friend when I see a new one in the wild. I’ve found my voice. Duchess is still in Crooked Path, and Hacienda will always be in a Mexican prison—somehow the two of them are bending time and space to cohost a bake sale fundraiser for the Dorothy Parker Academy for Girls this weekend—but Duchess doesn’t respond to everyone anymore. She’s receding. I know now I won’t lose the sounds passing through sudden rightnesses because it was always just me, singing my own song to keep myself company. I’m okay and my kid will be okay, and this is what the ancestors prayed for.
