There were times in your life when you wished your mind could be read, or tuned to like some frequency on a radio. Times when you did not want to do the work of speaking your piece. Like when you and Jadi fought that day shortly after your lola died, scrappy, bruising, and afterward you knew it was your fault, the fight, but you didn’t know how to tell your friend that you were sorry. How easy it would’ve been, if you could’ve just opened a door and let him walk inside and see the mess for himself.
