A fly-away hair pops out from my bun. What difference does it make? I don’t care about most things these days. This baby is taking it all out of me. Look at what my sister’s did to my grandma. She’s a shell of herself. She’s lost her mind. She can’t even hold her bowels. She is in assisted living, which means that she no longer has a full human within her.

Speckles, like chocolate chips, look up at me from the white patch on my dog’s back.

It looks like we’re talking two cars, they say, which means that I’ll be driving.

She doesn’t wear shoes or clothes when she gets home. She’s leaving work at the end of the month. Who knows if she’s going to go back. She has four weeks to decide.

Hopefully I can heal from this. They’re talking about how short a time meconium lasts on the way to Walmart. Her sister is driving her own car in case she poops her pants because she is a party pooper. There’s an accident, and I’m the intersection. Windshield blown out, body on a stretcher, blue mesh shoes. Could have been me. Could have been musette.

Do the hospitals still give out those slip proof socks, asks her mom. If so, then you can cross those off your list.

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