The Polaroid was tossed to the brown kitchen tile to do its thing. 6 months pregnant, not really happy or sure about anything at all, she didn’t smile. It was more like a “oh its you…trying to make up for being such an asshole” look. 21 years later, it would transfer from photo book to box to garage to a desk drawer that L. would sometimes pull out in an attempt to imagine his mother before he was alive: throwing back cans of Coors, loudmouthed with fair-weather dreams and an easy indifference to the future in some California desert town. (sb)
May 9, 2008...9:52 am
nineteen
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