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The bag contained a pair of white cotton gloves stained the color of age.
“Who do you think you are, Julius Shakespeare?” The man sincerely thought that was Shakespeare’s first name, and if you think I should have corrected him, you are ignorant about the art of survival.
Any other day of my life I could have won a fibbing contest hands down, and that, that is what I came up with: the pathetic truth.
August grew still, holding a jar in her hand and looking into the distance like she’d gone in search of the answer and that finding it had been the bonus of the day.
You see, everybody needs a God who looks like them, Lily.”
We are sorry, but something strong and lasting had to do this for May, and you are the chosen ones. God bless your rock hearts.
From now on when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I planned to say, Amnesiac.
“Every person on the face of the earth makes mistakes, Lily. Every last one. We’re all so human. Your mother made a terrible mistake, but she tried to fix it.”
And when you get down to it, Lily, that’s the only purpose grand enough for a human life. Not just to love—but to persist in love.”
I remember the sight of them standing there waiting. All these women, all this love, waiting.
I go back to that one moment when I stood in the driveway with small rocks and clumps of dirt around my feet and looked back at the porch. And there they were. All these mothers. I have more mothers than any eight girls off the street. They are the moons shining over me.
